


the wolf's wedding

by pistolgrip



Series: sunshowers [1]
Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Established Song/Silva, But the different races still exist (I love Erunes), M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Stressful Adult Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-17 21:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14839671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: As far as roommates go, they're not each other's first picks. But Siete just wants some of his money back, and Six needs a place to stay that's anywhere but where he is now. Life has a way of keeping them together.(They spend three years in each other's company before the storm cloud finally breaks under its own weight, and then the sky rains down on them with no mercy.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a sunshower is a meteorological phenomenon in which rain falls while the sun is shining. another name for this phenomenon is the wolf's wedding.
> 
> happy 07/06/18!

**six**  
_july 8_

 

All of a sudden, there was light, and he was bathed in just barely-comfortable warmth, and _then_ came the enormous headache with the dry mouth.  
  
Six had never blacked out before. He’d gotten _close,_ surely, but he’d never quite pushed over that edge, and nowadays he’s got someone to remind him to eat before he drinks. That time, the closest he had ever gotten, he had woken up in his bed with a bucket by the side, and Siete passed out on the floor with a blanket on top of him, citing the need to stay close just in case anything went wrong.  
  
Today, he wakes up curled up in a ball, in a bed that smells nothing like his but is suffocatingly familiar, comfortable. More noticeably, someone has their left arm around his waist and is breathing against his ears. Still not fully awake, he reaches for one of the bottles of water on the bedside table—  
  
—and stops when the light shines off something that was certainly not there yesterday, something he didn’t think he’d ever be presented with. Quietly, sobriety hitting him like a truck, he looks down at the arm around his waist.  
  
Right there, on Siete's finger, is a matching ring.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **siete  
** _three years ago, march_

 

The only thing Siete remembers about the breakup is that it was on a Thursday. He knows this because he had a meeting with his thesis advisor earlier that day, and he’d worked the breakup in like part of his schedule. It’s maybe a testament to their relationship that both of them are more worried about how the rent for the rest of the month is going to work out; movies and TV and books tell him that sorting through the apartment as _his_ and _hers_ is the most heartbreaking part, but both of them approach it with a surgical precision, cutting open soft skin and removing excess.

It’s how his relationships tend to go, the only difference being that this was longer than usual, much more drawn out than it had any right being. It was fun at first, but she’d called him distant after enough time, eyes always seeking something larger beyond the confines of their small apartment, beyond what their relationship could bring, and they’d agreed to separate.

Fine by him. He’s learning that he’s been more happy with the idea of someone walking alongside him on their own paths; the longer the two of them had been together, the more she had tried to merge their life course into one. Maybe he should stop trying to look for people. Maybe he should let things happen and he’ll end up falling into someone’s arms.

“And that’s why I need to find someone to live with,” Siete ends, taking a bite into his muffin and watching a chocolate chip fall off and onto the ground. “I still got a year or something on this lease and I don’t wanna pay all of it. Tell your friends. I’ll discount them.”

Nio looks at him, hands on her temples. “We know. We were the ones that knocked sense into you, and I should say, we _all_ saw this coming. We _did_ try to tell you.”

“I know, I know,” he says, guiltily. “Should I get it tattooed on my back? ‘Nio was right’?”

“That would be lovely,” she says.

Sarasa opens her mouth, and Siete knows whatever she’s about to say isn’t so much _tough love_ as it is _harshly worded truth._ “I mean, you said you didn’t wanna have a long term relationship or whatever in your undergrad, and then you went and did, and now look at ya.” Sarasa has a piece of egg stuck in her teeth, grinning wide. “Eh, whatever. She was no fun anyway. Remember when you invited her to my birthday and she called me a pig ‘cause apparently she’d never eaten chicken with her hands before in her _life?”_

Nio sighs. “I agreed with her on some level. However, she’d tried to convince me to her side with some rather nasty words. I almost feel bad for laughing in her face.” Sarasa bursts out in explosive laughter, smacking the table and Nio’s shoulder at the same time. Nio keeps her composure, hiding her smile behind the napkin.

“She _what?”_

“Yeah, no shit,” Sarasa cackles. “We tried to tell ya, but she went all googoo eyes and ya fell for it. Didn’t think you were the kind to get stepped all over, Siete, for real. Can’t believe it took an entire intervention staged by all of us to even get you to this point.”

That’s a real kick in the dick if he ever felt one. “Oh,” he says, numbly, before sighing and scratching his eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess I fucked up.”

“Tell me about it!” Sarasa grins and leans over the table, taking a sip of his coffee and sighing. “But we’re glad to have ya back, dumbass.”

Nio’s giving him a small smile too, exasperated and relieved at the same time. “Just so you know, you’re five minutes over your break.”

He looks down at his watch and then back at the counter. “Oh shit.” He stuffs the rest of the muffin in his mouth. Nio _tsk_ s when he gets crumbs all over her textbook, but waves him off anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _three years ago, april_

 

“I got someone for you,” Djeeta says, sitting in the break room next to him. “Sort of. He was Gran’s roommate in first year, and he’s still kind of new to the city. You know Gran’s moving out and all at the end of the summer, so the guy needs a place to live.”

Siete sighs in relief, sinking into the couch. “What would I do without you, my loveliest?”

“Not be hired here under my good word,” she says, sticking out her tongue. “But Gran got me the guy’s number, and he says it’s okay to text.” There’s a difficult expression on her face though, and when she doesn’t say anything, Siete probes.

“Why the long face?”

“Well... the guy is kinda...” She moves her hands around, trying to find the words. “Gran says he’s not a bad guy when it comes down to it, but he’s a little...”

“Shit?” Siete tries.

“No, no. What was the word he used... frosty?”

“I’m like sunshine, I’ll melt him right down.”

“Even Gran has his doubts about that.” The smile on her face is wary, but it’s a smile all the same. “But he’s willing to pay as long as he can move in soon.”

“Soon?”

“He won’t say,” Djeeta shrugs.

The empty room springs to life in his mind immediately, and while he doesn’t miss his ex per se, he’s never been well-suited to living alone. He only needs the apartment for just over a year before he graduates, and it can’t be the worst thing he’ll ever experience. “Sure, I’ll text him.”

 

 

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _three years ago, july_

 

As a texter, Six was curt, straight to the point, and Siete had to wonder what he was getting himself into as he set up a meeting for him to come over and look at the apartment. School schedules being the way they were, there was no way to have them meet up before the first week of April.

Siete had kept the windows open, letting the spring breeze blow through the apartment. It was warmer than it should have been for that time of year, and when Six had knocked on his door with a hoodie tightly curled around him and jeans and an uncomfortable look on his face, he thought he might have died of heatstroke just looking at him.

“Six?”

He’d frowned, like he had to remember what his name was. “...Yes.”

“Friend of Gran and Djeeta’s, right? God, I know too many twins,” he had said jokingly, opening the door. “Alright, come on in.”

The general impression he got of Six was that he was quiet, and that he was irritable, but Siete knew people like him. Usually, they were okay people as long as they got their space. Siete was maybe hoping for a little more warmth in his apartment, but he trusted Gran and Djeeta’s judgment, so he’d let Six in.

He had moved in early May, and other than the occasional sightings in the hallway, Six was almost silent. At the very least, there wasn’t an empty room in his apartment, and he was getting some of his money back for the sublet, and he wasn't unbearably lonely; he was working full-time over the summer, so for better or for worse, he’d have company.

Six leaves the house often enough that they cross paths, and he always seems ready to run—not necessarily annoyed with Siete, but seeming like he would much rather be somewhere else. But he’s clean as a roommate, is almost deathly quiet, and always washes his dishes. It’s good enough.

Still, time passes by fast; his day off that week coincides with his actual birthday, and he hums all the way to the kitchen, ready to make himself brunch and scrolling through his phone idly.

“Siete,” he hears from the doorway, and he gets a heart attack from the sudden call of his name. He feels his body freeze up instinctively, before relaxing.

“Jesus, holy shit, oh my _god,”_ he says, hand on his chest and looking at Six. “Good morning, my god, I didn’t hear you.”

Six looks away, biting the inside of his cheek, and then back towards him. He’s still in sleeping clothes, hair mussed up. “Gran tells me it’s your birthday.”

Guilt swirls through his mind. Alongside his regular group of friends, he’d invited the twins and half the people he’d worked for his birthday, and hadn’t thought to invite Six. In his defense, before this point, they’d only exchanged a few words over two and a half months. But he forgets that they met through a mutual friend to begin with, and he scratches the back of his head. “Ah, yeah.”

Looking away again, Six stays silent. Siete doesn’t pick his phone back up just yet, but goes back to cutting vegetables. A comfortable silence settles in the air, water bubbling and the knife against the cutting board, and then Six coughs.

“...Happy birthday. Have a good day.” He nods, and with that, he’s gone.

Siete stares at the doorway for a few moments to make sure he’s truly awake.

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _three years ago, august_

 

Gran looks at him, smile carefully frozen, and he knows he’s done something wrong.

When Six first moved here, he hadn’t expected to have anyone interested in being his friend, let alone be able to make friends, and definitely not a friend like Gran—Djeeta, too, was kind, but Gran was so blindly devoted to the people he loved and wore his heart on his sleeve that it was easy for Six to open up around him.

It was easy for his feeling of friendship to grow into something more, too, his contentedness with the current state of things being overtaken by an uncontrollable shadow that _wanted_. It desired closeness, it desired love, it  _desired._ It was insatiable, and it had accumulated to this point, Gran’s sunny smile sharp against the drops of rain hitting against the front window of the car.

He’d decided not to go to Gran’s going-away party. There had simply been too many people for him to be comfortable, and Gran had to go and say, _then why don’t just the two of us hang out?_

Who was he to say no? There was nothing different about this, about Gran picking him up from his apartment and driving him around, sharing an umbrella as they dashed to get inside the restaurant. The only difference was that Gran was leaving tomorrow, and the coil around his heart was suffocating, blood starting to leak around the edges.

He’d said what he’d said. There was no point in repeating it, in thinking about it ever again.

Gran is sitting in the car, in the drivers seat, with the streetlights on his face and he’s all warm orange and cool blue, the raindrops still pelting everything around them—when Gran looks away, Six closes his eyes, because there was a part of him that truly believed that Gran would have felt the same. Everything he’s feeling is completely new—the way he had looked forward to just the two of them spending time, that contentedness turning into something more—and he’d foolishly allowed himself to believe that Gran could actually, truly, _sincerely—_

“Six?” His head snaps up, and there’s no other word for the look on his face, the hand hovering awkwardly in the space between them, than _pity_. The word curls up in his stomach like rotting fruit in the sun. “I’m sorry—”

“I should be the one apologizing,” Six says, cutting him off. It’s a wonder he manages to keep his voice straight, but it won’t last long. “It was selfish of me to—to—”

“No, it’s not your fault—”

“—to push this on you on your last day in this town,” Six continues. The final straw, of all things, is when Gran finally frowns—in concentration or annoyance, it can’t matter to Six anymore—and he opens the passenger door, into the pouring rain.

“Listen, Six, this isn’t your fault.” The sound of his voice over the thunder makes him stop. Gran’s always had that sort of effect on him—but he has that effect on everyone, doesn’t he? “We can’t control the way we feel, and that goes for you too, and the way you feel can’t be _wrong._ That’s not how feelings work.”

It would have been easier to love someone who wasn’t so endlessly kind and understanding; there is no easy way to eradicate the nuisance that hangs over him, his feelings, and recovery hardly seems feasible from a betrayal as strong as this.

Gran had done no betraying, that much was obvious. But Six had gone back on his word, tried to make an exception, and inevitably got hurt in the end.

“You have somewhere to be,” Six says, steeling his voice and desperately trying to push everything back into its rusted cage, “don’t keep this up any longer.”

It would have been easier to love someone who wasn’t so stubborn. Gran can read through him so easily, so much so that Six can’t quite get up off the passenger seat and up the stairs into his apartment. “If it makes you feel any better, Six, I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you, and I don’t think I ever can. And I’d still want to be friends, if you’re okay with that.”

“I don’t think I am,” he says, numbly, and he finally stands up and closes the door behind him, but not before saying—quietly, so quietly that Gran isn’t fully convinced he’s hearing it—“Thank you for your kindness.”

 

 

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _three years ago, september_

 

Djeeta walks through the door, setting off the small wind chime. Siete waves her over to the small window table he’s saved for them, and she gratefully comes over. “Sorry,” she says, slightly out of breath, setting down her bag and settling into the chair. “Prof went overtime with lecture for literally no reason.”

“No, it’s alright, it’s alright, I haven’t ordered yet. You want anything?”

“The usual?”

“Go and catch your breath, I’ll fix you right up.” Djeeta smacks him on the arm as he passes by her to order.

The line is longer than usual now that it’s after classes, and it gives him time to think. While hanging out with Djeeta wasn’t unusual, he has a specific purpose in calling her out today, all related to the way Six has been acting lately.

More specifically, the way he _hasn’t_ been acting; Six had just been awkward before, wanting to stay a relative distance away from him but not blatantly hostile. Now, he’s actively pushing Siete away, scowling at him whenever he tries to make small talk and always hurrying out the door with textbooks falling out of his hands, not coming back until late hours of the night.

And sure, Siete can guess. Their mutual friends are the twins, and Gran had just moved away. From what he remembers, they were roommates for a length of time in first year, and if anyone could have made friends with Six, it would be Gran and Djeeta.

Six seemed like kind of a lonely guy, but not passive in the slightest. He always looked like he was one step away from exploding with any emotion under the right amount of pressure, and it seemed like this might have been enough.

Siete drops his change in the tip jar after ordering and waves back at Djeeta as he sits.

“Why’d you call me out, other than to try and hit on me again?”

“Am I so transparent?”

“Yes, you idiot.”

“No, I actually have a bit of a serious question.”

Djeeta’s smirk turns into something more curious, and she tilts her head. “Shoot.”

Lowering his voice slightly, he leans in over the table with his chin in his hand. “Do you know why Six has been weird lately? I know it was your brother that was close to him, but I figure you’d have some idea.”

Djeeta looks up at the corner of her eyes and purses her lips. “...Yes. But I don’t think that’s my place to tell you. I don’t even think it’s Gran’s place to tell you, and that already might be telling you too much.”

“That’s fine by me. I had a hunch,” Siete sighs. “Just seems like the guy’s been more down and out than usual. Not that I would know because I barely see him, but he seems... different, lately.”

“You see him more than anyone, these days,” Djeeta smiles sadly. “He’s stopped answering my texts, too, and I’m just leaving him open invitations at this point. Make sure he’s doing okay. Gran keeps wanting to apologize, but I keep telling him Six needs space.”

“Just wish I could do more for the guy, y’know?” he says, voice trailing off.

“I think just being there for him might help. He doesn’t seem like it, but he enjoys company if he likes you.”

 _“If,”_ Siete stresses. He tries to rewind the past few months, wracks his brain to see if there’s any sort of indication that Six ultimately didn’t mind his company, but he’s drawing blanks. “I have been told many times I’m a pain in the ass.”

“But we still love you. It’s, like, your charm. We just don’t tell you because then you get your head up your ass about it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _three years ago, october_

 

“Yo, Six.”

He knocks a pattern onto Six’s door—not that it matters since only two of them live there, but it’s a long-ingrained habit to do so. Since the meeting with Djeeta, he’d given Six a week or two, and he’d tried to act the way he always had (letting Six come to him first, exchanging pleasantries in their own shared apartment). But it’s almost as if Six has gotten worse somehow, now that it’s approaching midterm season.

Six opens the door and eyes him suspiciously. He looks well enough put together, but the more Siete tries to get a read on him, the more obvious it is that Six is holding on by barely a thread. The bags under his eyes are noticeable, his lips are pale, and the glare he’s trying to give Siete is more fatigued than annoyed. He knows that the Six he saw before August was much, much more alive than the Six he sees in front of him now.

“What.”

“You busy this Friday?” Siete asks. “It’s some friends’ birthdays and we’re getting together, and I think you guys would get along. You’re both quiet, or at least, one of the twins is,” he tries, “and I know how much you dislike talking, especially to me. You two are the same like that—”

“I’ll pass.” Six turns away and closes the door.

“I just think you guys would get along,” Siete says through the door. “You don’t have to meet everyone else, but I think you two—”

The door swings back open and the furrow of Six’s eyebrows is stronger, angrier. The flame alight in his eyes right now captivates him, and this is the Six he was unconsciously waiting for, the one who tells him he’s still got a spark of life left. “If you’re trying to do me a _favour_ by taking pity on me, it won’t work. Your efforts at conversation are absolutely useless.”

Hold on. “’Pity’?”

Six’s scowl deepens and his grip on the doorknob tightens. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now about my _unfortunate circumstances_. If you sincerely believe that forcing myself to mingle with others would be therapeutic, I suggest you reconsider.”

“What does it matter if I know what happened or if I don’t?”

“Regardless of intention, at the end of the day, you’re running a fool’s errand. Leave me be.”

“Asking me to leave you alone is a fool’s errand in itself. I live with you, y’know.”

“I’m doing you a favour by living here. I could easily move out and find another place.”

“If you’d like,” Siete shrugs. He watches the way Six scans his face, trying to catch the bluff, and Siete keeps it easy. “I’m a popular guy as it is.”

“If you’re so popular, why are you forcing me—a ‘pathetic shut-in’—to indulge in your requests?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, but you got me there,” Siete says, breaking out into a smile. “It gets lonely at the top even when everyone loves you.”

He watches something break in Six’s eyes, and he starts mentally backtracking as fast as he can. That was the worst thing he could have possibly said, judging by the way Six’s expression clouds over, rainfall extinguishing the fire that was there just a second ago, and looks away, painfully. “I’m sure it does.”

Six closes the door on him, so carefully that the door barely makes a sound.

•

“You _what?”_ Song says, mouth dropping open. “Are you an _idiot_ , Siete? I know your jokes can be out of line at times, but _really?_ To someone you barely even _know?”_

“Look, I had no idea that was gonna set him off again! I feel as bad about it as you do, and you don’t even know the guy!”

“I’ve heard enough—I can’t believe you. What does he like?”

“What?”

“You need more than a verbal apology at this rate.”

Siete opens his mouth, and it hangs open for much longer than it should. Hesitantly, he tries, “...I got him a donut once from your store and he devoured it when he thought I wasn’t looking?”

“Get him an entire box of donuts and then sit down and _apologize,_ Siete.”

“Only if you get me a discount.”

“This is _not_ the time for jokes.”

“You’re right, you’re right. The guy just seems so down on himself, I don’t know how badly I fucked up.”

“Oh, good, there’s backup,” Song says—and if Song was capable of sounding derisive, that’s what she would be right now—and waves Djeeta over.

“Why did you invite her,” Siete whispers.

“She needs to know,” Song says in a regular voice, a bit louder than usual as Djeeta pulls up a chair. “Siete, tell Djeeta what you said.”

Grimacing, Siete takes a deep breath and starts. “So I was trying to get Six to come out for the twins’ birthday, because I figure he’d get along with the girls well enough. And he thought I was pitying him, but I just wanted to see the guy cheer up for a bit, he hadn’t even made fun of me since August or whatever.”

“He used to make fun of you?” Djeeta tilts her head.

“Listen—everyone does,” Siete responds, “even Six did. He barely knew me. Before August, he used to just be awkward, but he’d talk with me. Now he just completely ignores me, made it pretty clear that it’s not just me he doesn’t want to talk to, but anyone at all.

 _“Anyway,_ I’d gotten him back to the point where he made fun of me. He was like, ‘if you’re so popular, why do you have to ask me, a shut-in?’, and I said—” here, Song puts her head in her hands—“’it gets lonely at the top, even when everyone loves you’.”

Djeeta’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “You _didn’t.”_

“Was it _that_ bad?”

“Yes! First of all, you _know_ my brother! Everyone loves him! There’s, like, no exception to that!” she says frantically, grimacing at him. _“No_ exception!” She looks around the cafe and then lowers her voice, Siete and Song leaning in. “Look, you can’t say anything, but Gran was apparently Six’s friend in a really, really, _really_ long time. And you _know_ how my brother is, he can’t say no to anyone and he’s oblivious about how _nice_ he comes off to other people!” For emphasis, she echoes Siete’s words. _“Everyone_ loves him, Siete! _Everyone!”_

Siete’s mouth closes in a tight line. “Well, fuck.”

“’Well, fuck’ is right, you big dumb,” Djeeta agrees, hands on her temples. “God. Okay. But see, now if you apologize, that means he’ll know for sure that you know, and that might make things worse.”

“At this point, it might be better than nothing.” Song sighs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear and smiling sadly. “Saying sorry is always hard, but it doesn’t seem like your roommate had a lot of people he could rely on in the first place. It’s bad, but there are rarely things that aren’t able to be fixed with a decent conversation.”

On the way home, Siete drops by the bakery. He grabs an entire box of donuts after a single second’s contemplation, and just for the hell of it, he picks up the first card he sees; it’s one of those wedding congratulations cards, and on the front there’s some cartoon drawing with the words _just hitched!_ in gold cursive, and he scratches out _hitched_ and makes the card read _just found out I was a big asshole!_

On the inside, he writes, _Sorry for what I said. It was a bad time to joke. You don’t have to forgive me to take the donuts._ And with Song’s words in mind, he also adds, _If you wanna talk about anything, I’m always around. Even if it’s just to tell me I’m an idiot._

He gets home and puts the box on the ground outside of Six’s door with the card on top, knocks, and then moves into the living room to start working on assignments.

He doesn’t know how much time passes until Six finally comes out of the room, holding the box of donuts in his hands and a frown still on his face—but this time it’s more unsure, wary; Six is staring at him the way stray cats do when someone extends their hand towards it.

Instead of walking into the common area, Six stands in the entrance to the hallway, waiting for Siete to say something. It seems like neither of them are gonna talk soon, but then Six lets out a sigh, almost imperceptible, like a small breath he was holding onto and letting go. “...You’re an idiot.”

Siete feels the smile stretch across his face. “Man, I was starting to think that not even the prospect of one free insult against me would work.”

Six huffs and opens the box. “There’s too much for me to eat. You’re fattening me up like a pig for slaughter.”

It’s a game. Siete plays along. “I bought extras for myself ‘cause I figured you wouldn’t finish them all. I didn’t even think you’d take the box, actually.” Siete walks over towards him, reaches over to pick up one of the donuts, and Six takes the box away from him.

“You get only what I leave you.” With that, Six turns around and shuffles down the hallway, closing the door behind him into his room again.

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _three years ago, november_

 

Six lets the months pass him by in an indeterminate blur. He allows the semester to pile onto him, weighing him down faster than than the other things swirling in his brain can. He’s no stranger to forcing feelings down, but he’s historically never let them rise to the surface.

If there’s one blessing he can count on, it’s that, for as much as he seeks to escape any sort of company, he can exist in his own apartment without feeling like crawling out of his own skin. He feels like a hollowed spirit wandering the halls of the apartment, with the occasional offering of donuts sitting silently on the kitchen table. Numb routine is familiar to him, grounds him in the way lightning strikes the tallest trees vulnerable in an open field, singing him down to the roots. The only difference is that Siete just happens to be around for it.

His routine calls for him to be naturally suited for dark nights, and now that Siete isn’t working full time, his appearance in the apartment becomes more common. Siete is in his final year desperately trying to get his thesis together, and if he’s not on campus, he’s at the apartment, staying up at times that would rival Six’s own bad habits.

These days, they’ll end up crossing paths with each other on the way to the kitchen or the bathroom. More often than not in those times, Siete would say whatever was on his mind; some dumb thing his professor said in class, the way his back hurt from hunching over too much, or—during the more stressful times—the bare minimum of looking up from his work for just long enough to smile and greet him before turning his attention back to work.

A more naive him from a few months ago might have appreciated the open invitation to talk, might have lent himself to actual conversation—but he’s learnt his lesson in the worst way possible, so he shoots Siete down at every opportunity, ignoring him or pushing him away completely.

It’s unfair of him, he knows; he’s been giving Djeeta the minimum communication needed so she doesn’t burst through his apartment and cause a ruckus trying to check if he’s alive or not, but Gran has stayed true to his word and hasn’t tried to reach out again.

Maybe it’s to that he can attribute why his resolve weakens for the night when Six finds Siete hunched over the kitchen table, both of his hands through his hair and elbows on the table, staring at his laptop. The screen casts a sickly glow on the most silently desperate look he’s ever seen on his face, and Six remembers that everyone falls prey to something, something that takes over their entire life for even a moment, suffocating them.

Six is entranced by the sight of Siete looking so focused, normal unshakable spirit challenged so thoroughly. It’s because of this he can see exactly how startled Siete is, jumping when Six turns on the kitchen light suddenly. Groaning, Siete slumps back in the chair. “Jesus _fuck,_ I didn’t even see you,” he says, and he runs a hand through his hair once more and sits back up. There’s a soft smile on his face, but it’s weary, and Six gets the impression that, moreso than usual, he’s putting on a show—not for Six’s sake, but for Siete’s own.

“...Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t worry, it’s—” Siete looks down at his laptop and grimaces. “Almost three in the morning, I should be asleep, anyway. And so should you.”

He should be. This is the part where he accepts the way out given to him and goes to lay in bed, sleepless for another night before picking himself up for a full day of classes. But something in him boils bitter, and instead of doing the smart thing, he says, with a bite in his voice, “sleeping isn’t an option.” He starts up the coffee maker and leans against the kitchen counter, not knowing why he does so; he hates the taste of coffee to begin with, but anything to make his current mood more palatable.

“Working on anything?”

“No. Not everyone sleeps well at night.”

Silence falls, but it’s not as awkward as he would have expected it to be, which means he’ll have to try harder in the future. Maybe they’re both too tired for this. The coffee machine beeps for attention and he opens a cupboard above him, reaching for a mug and pouring it in. Turning his back away from Siete, he takes a quick sip and finds that it’s just as terrible as he remembers it to be—worse, even.

It’s not an excuse. It’s the real reason he walks up to the dining table, putting the mug in front of Siete with a bit more force than necessary. Siete stops his frantic typing to look up at him. “What, for me?”

“I don’t see anyone else in this room."

“No, it’s—hey, thanks. A little out of nowhere, but not complaining.” Six resists the urge to scoff at the notion that he’s done this out of any sort of altruistic reason; still, the weary smile Siete gives him this time seems a little more sincere, a little more human in its gratefulness.

“I simply don’t want any debts with you. Now we’re even for the donuts.”

“Depends on how you equate the donuts to the coffee. This coffee is _clearly_ of inferior quality, something only cheap university kids buy, versus my weekly, _top-notch_ donuts from a really nice bakery that my friend _also_ happens to work at, meaning I get discounts, meaning that those donuts have more worth than you think. Pick up your game, buddy.” Six watches as he takes a sip from the mug anyway, and his face scrunches up before he relaxes, sinking back into the chair. “Still, anything helps.”

Six keeps watching.

Siete pats the table next to him, right in front of an open chair. “Wanna join the late-night-doing-nothing club?”

“I’m going back to my room.”

Frankly, the concept of staying up any longer in his company scares Six, how Siete offers no resistance to his own vitriol, letting it wash over him. It seems suspiciously like the start of good relations, and Six doesn’t want anything to do with it; _better to have loved and lost_ is the falsest lie he’s ever had the misfortune of believing, and there are no benefits to try and overrule it.

“Well, if you’re ever up at ass o’clock again, I’m always here for you to pay back your donut-related debts.”

“I thought the goal was to get me out of my room, not to keep me locked in it for the rest of my life.”

“You’ll have to come out some time,” Siete says, sing-song voice following Six back into his room. “Everyone needs to pee.”

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _two years ago, february_

 

It’s much, much colder in this city than where he came from.

He’d never seen snow before last year, and he’d quickly learnt what everyone had known for a very long time: snow was beautiful in theory, but a nightmare to get through when running errands or doing anything that involved leaving the house. Part of him had dreaded the upcoming winter season for this exact reason; there was less option for him to escape elsewhere to avoid human interaction (see: with Siete), and more often than not, he’d end up in his apartment, locking his door and checking for any sounds of life in the hallway.

Siete doesn’t go home for the holidays, either, and Six has nowhere to call home to begin with, so winter shapes up to be a long season. Siete more or less gets the hint about his moods. He still hasn’t stopped bringing donuts, and he hasn’t stopped trying to strike up a conversation, but Six has endured worse, and simple conversation won’t break him down.

What _does_ break him down, however, is when the heater on their entire floor breaks. The maintenance people are set to come early in the morning, but it’s barely past midnight now and Six has never felt so cold in his life.

For once, he feels the pull of exhaustion into sleep, but the threat of hypothermia keeps him from trying. He’s already got his covers around him, and he knows there’s a blanket on the armchair in the living room, but he also knows Siete is—as always—at the dining room table, working.

He endures this thought loop for an hour and a half before he thinks, _there are worse ways to die._ His bare feet touch the floor and chill him to the bone, and while tiptoeing, he opens the door to his room and walks out into the hallway, following the light of Siete’s laptop so he can turn and find his way onto the armchair.

The profile of Siete’s face, blindingly bright from the laptop screen, doesn’t follow him as he drops into the armchair. It stays silent, the typing only pausing when Six shifts and the armchair creaks. He brings his knees up to his chin and curls himself as tightly as he can, pulling the other blanket over him, and within the heat of his blanket cocoon, he falls asleep quickly.

 

 

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _two years ago, february_

 

Six is the quietest roommate he’s ever had, and it’s both a blessing and a curse. It’s especially a curse at night, when most of the lights are off and he’s focused on his work when all of a sudden, the kitchen light will go on, and he’ll be blinded momentarily by the flash of light, and his vision will adjust and without fail he’ll see Six standing there, in his pyjamas and hand on the fridge door handle. It’s hard to get used to, even when he knows it’s coming. Like the way Six very clearly startles when he goes to toast bread and he’ll be watching it intently, and the toast will come out and his ears will twitch a little.

He can’t afford distractions tonight, and so he won’t jump this time when Six comes in for a midnight snack, heart be damned. He’s got a meeting with some of his profs tomorrow in the morning and he really shouldn’t be up this late, but the world doesn’t slow down when you’ve got shit to do. If anything, it just goes faster.

Or it gets colder. Throughout the night, he layers up, which is more time-cost effective than giving in and driving to one of the buildings on campus that’s always open to finish work.

Taking a quick glance at the time, he does have to wonder where Six is, though. He’s usually out by this time, eating something or another before returning to his room. It’s most likely related to the heater issue, but Siete’s room feels colder than it does here, so he has to wonder how Six handles it.

Over the sound of his typing, he hears the armchair creak and stops, turning his head quickly. Their apartment is high enough that there theoretically shouldn’t be animals that sneak in to find refuge here. Pausing his work and lowering the brightness on his laptop, he sees a lump on the armchair, and the figure of Six swaddled in blankets like a chocolate coronet with his ears sticking out becomes clearer to him.

He puts his chin in his hand and squints into the darkness, waiting for Six to say something or acknowledge the situation. Shortly after, he hears steady breathing, deeply, in and out. He knows that Six has problems sleeping, for most likely a variety of reasons, so to see him pass out so fast and so completely gives him the tiniest idea of how exhausted Six is, living life day-to-day.

“It’s barely past midnight,” he mumbles to himself, “I’ve never seen you sleep before three in the morning.”

Six’s soft snoring answers him, and he sighs.

“Whatever helps, I guess.”

Siete decides to make sure he’s eating properly, files it away somewhere in the back of his mind, before going back to work.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**six  
** _july 8_

 

Six is careful not to wake Siete up—the chances of the arm around him being Siete are almost guaranteed, since he doesn’t think he’d be so far gone as to bring someone random home, let alone in _Siete’s_ bed—and he reaches for his phone on the bedside table first, ignoring the water bottle.

When he shifts forward, so does Siete, mumbling incoherently in sleep and wrapping his arm tighter around him. They’ve both still got their clothes on, at least, from what he can tell from where they’re in contact, which strikes out one possibility of what happened. Probably.

He’s tempted to wake Siete up and ask him what the _hell_ is going on, but that means fully accepting that what’s happening right now is actually happening, and he wants to delay that for as long as possible.

His phone is miraculously on the lowest brightness, but it doesn’t stop him from nearly dropping it when he sees the lockscreen, a picture clearly taken by Siete of the two of them; Siete is grinning widely, holding his left hand up with—with the _ring,_ and Six covering his face with one hand, ring equally visible.

The notification he grimaces at hides the shy smile on his face in the picture. Waking up with notifications on his phone is generally a bad sign for him—something at work’s come up, emails he doesn’t want to answer—and today is no different.

 **Song** 1:46am  
Are you okay? You left a voicemail but I couldn’t hear anything?

 **Song** – _Missed call_ 1:47am  
**Song** – _Missed call_ 1:48am

 **Song** 2:01am  
Is Siete with you?

 **Song** – _Missed call_ 2:15am  
**Song** – _Missed call_ 2:30am  
**Song** – _Missed call_ 2:45am

 **Song** 3:03am  
CALL ME.

Still careful not to move, he unlocks his phone and starts typing, slower than usual. He still doesn’t really get the hang of smartphones, and it’s even worse when he’s torn between disconnected panic and a massive hangover.

 **You** 1:22pm  
Just woke up. Can’t call

 **Song** 1:22pm  
I will go over to your apartment and find you myself

 **Song** 1:23pm  
Where’s Siete?

He bites his lip. Siete’s breathing is even, arm around his waist, and it doesn’t seem like he’ll be waking up soon. Six tries to get off the bed again, but Siete is surprisingly clingy, and he stays still again out of guilt.

 **You** 1:26pm  
He’s... still sleeping.

 

 **Song** 1:26pm  
What the hell did you guys DO?

 **Song** 1:26pm  
You left me exactly one voicemail, and Siete sent one message

 **Song** 1:27pm  
Exactly one. If he’s still asleep, you won’t have seen it. When you see it, tell me

 **You** 1:29pm  
It’s alright. Nothing happened last night.

 **Song** 1:31pm  
I want you to look at your left hand and tell me that again.

That’s enough for Six to be able to guess what the voicemail and messages consisted of, and his head drops down onto the pillow, muffling a frustrated groan.

He accidentally flicks Siete in the face with his ears and his deep breathing stops. He freezes as Siete rolls over onto his back, and Six hears him mumble, “Fuck.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **six  
** _two years ago, april_

 

How an entire school year has passed by is a mystery to anyone—especially to Six, who had lived most of it in and out of any sort of emotion.

 _Time heals_ is another phrase he’d consider generally false, but his self-imposed numbness has become more or less a reality; in that sense, it’s not so much _healing_ as it was _ignoring the problem_. He’d started to talk to Djeeta again occasionally, and she is different from her brother, but similar enough that their quirks reflect on each other, and Six can only handle so much before the memories are dragged back up to the surface, reminding him that they’ll never go away.

Siete, too, has been more open to him, although it largely feels like a one-way street. His stories of his everyday life and stressors have gotten more frequent, but Six at least understands that Siete needs to talk whenever he’s nervous—because he hasn’t been able to _stop doing it—_ and he apparently doesn’t mind that Six doesn’t have much to say, so as long as he makes eye contact at least once.

The part he’s wary of is that it starts to become a routine, and routine leads to familiarity, and familiarity leads to friendliness. He knows that just sitting there and listening despite pretending not to is the lowest form of support he could even offer—but he’s rather unlovable of a person as it is, and anything he does that tells Siete not to bother with him is good by him.

Except it seems to have the complete opposite effect. For Six, there’s no longer any benefit in keeping friends, nor is there any for someone to have Six as a friend. Expressing that in more or less the same words to Siete’s face just makes him more persistent, strangely enough.

When the last of winter melts away, Siete blooms with everything else, and he’s almost always one of two extremes; stressed and buckled down under the end of term, or inexplicably happy, constantly singing and talking to himself around the apartment. Siete talks to him during either of those moods; Six is supposed to be heartless, but that just meant he doesn’t have the heart to tell him to _truly_ stop, either.

Of course, he’ll stick his head out of his door or knock on their shared wall to try and get him to quiet down, but it always comes back. It becomes a routine. (Something for Six to look forward to as something consistent, a zipline keeping him straight as he threatens to fall into the treetops.)

Without the school term, he loses two forms of routine: class itself and Siete. Because now that Siete’s done, put himself in the cycle for job hunting after graduation, Six has got nothing left except to sit in his apartment and think about summer jobs and find things to do.

It’s safe enough in this part of the city that Six eventually replaces his late nights with running. He’d kept up with it for most of his life, before the drive disappeared almost completely in the past year. It’s easy enough to get back into the rhythm of running regularly, whether it be at night or not, and the burn keeps his mind off things.

Not that he has much to think about these days. Nothing but the past, nothing but the future, nothing but reflection on the past year.

It’s on one of those running nights, when he’s considering things like routine and friendship and how much of a fool part of him is for still wanting to reach out, that Siete approaches him. It’s late, and it seems like anyone roughly their age is doomed to be night owls, so he gets home and kicks his running shoes off and finds Siete in the living room watching a movie.

“Oh, good, you’re home,” he says, lowering the volume. “Wanna go out tomorrow with friends and grab a few drinks? Any sort of end of exams is worth celebrating, fuck that entire last year.”

“No.” The response comes out without a second thought, but he still watches Siete’s face for any sort of indication of whether he’d really, _truly_ expected any other response from Six.

Siete is almost his complete opposite, which means he has people that actually enjoy his company and seek him out. There’s always a consistent group of friends he refers to, though, and Six has heard their names come up enough times that he can probably guess they’ll be there.

Siete sighs, but his smile is expectant, and he doesn’t seem hurt at all. “Did you really expect anything else from me?” Six asks.

“A zero-point-zero-zero-zero-one percent chance is still a chance.” He shrugs. “But yeah, I’ll probably be out the rest of the night. Don’t have any house parties while I’m gone.”

Celebrations feel like something he should partake in only with people who he trusts, and—among other things—it’s why he declines. The notion that the two of them are close in any sense of the word is laughable, and he doesn’t think Siete would appreciate him intruding in on celebrating with his friends. It’s an invitation out of politeness, and so, in equal politeness (not so much in tone but in intention), he declines.

That night, he rests, reading books and treasuring the rare silence he gets; whenever Siete is around the apartment, there’s always movement, or humming, or talking under his breath. There’s a never-ending flurry of noise that surrounds him, and now Six gets a rare night to himself. Cracking open a window, he curls up in the armchair and flips open to his bookmark, the night breeze fluttering his pages occasionally.

Now, the apartment is quiet. He can hear every step from the neighbours upstairs, the TV from the other side of the wall, the noise of cars from outside his open window. The flip of his pages. The impatient tap of his foot against the floor.

Shutting the book, more annoyed with himself than anything, he thinks that maybe he needs movement, to walk around because he’s itching with the urge for something to _do_. He paces the entire apartment and ends back up at the kitchen table, about to dig through the weekly box of donuts, but it’s already empty.

It’s decided, then. He slips on a pair of shoes and wraps the hood around his head, tugging on the drawstrings. There’s nothing fancy that’s open this late at night, so they’ll have to make do with convenience store donuts, which aren’t awful per se, but nothing like the ones Siete’s been bringing home.

—He. _He’ll_ have to make do. There can’t be a _they_ if Siete isn’t even home that night for the decision.

The convenience store is a clinical white, soft music playing over the speakers as Six keeps his footsteps light. He passes by a section of prepared baked goods, and figures that a cake might be more appropriate given their circumstances. End of the term and all. Nothing special. He won’t even get them to write the occasion on top with icing.

Alarms are blaring in his mind, but lately, that’s become commonplace to him, too.

There’s no reason he puts the small cake on the kitchen table and there’s no reason he sits back on the armchair to keep reading his book. He’s not waiting, either, but he does end up falling asleep on that armchair, waking up to Siete nudging him gently in the shoulder, two plates of cake balancing precariously on his arms.

“What time is it,” Six yawns, sitting up straight.

“Like, 4am.”

Starting to get his bearings back, he feels a familiar frown appear on his face. “What possessed you to wake me up?”

He puts the plates down on the coffee table and bounces on the couch next to Six. He instinctively wraps the hoodie a little tighter around himself. “Thanks for the cake.”

“I didn’t—” At the pleased look on Six’s face, he decides it’s a lost cause. (The alarms in his mind don’t, though, and they increase in intensity.) He huffs. “...You’re welcome.”

Six eats the cake quietly as Siete recounts his adventures for the night, ending it with “you guys would get along, you should meet with them next time.”

“I don’t get along with anyone.”

“You get along with _me,”_ Siete tries, and the idea that Six gets along with him is enough for him to snort in his face.

“Now I know why you say you have so many friends. If you keep your bar that low, you could count a bird flying into our window as a friend.”

“Hey, you can never have too many friends. Sometimes they get you things. Like cake,” Siete says, lifting up his fork with a piece on it, and some icing drops onto his jeans. “Ah, fuck.”

“You cannot possibly believe we’re friends.”

Siete shrugs, distracted by trying to wipe the mess off his pants with a napkin. “Why not?”

 _Because I’ve done nothing to deserve it,_ he doesn’t say. He’s been nothing but deliberately cold to Siete the entire time he’s lived here, and he brushes him off at every opportunity—and besides, he does nothing but annoy Six, and that’s not what friendships are supposed to be about.

At least, that’s what he thinks. After all, Six has only had two friends in his life, and one of them he’s lost and the other he’s in the process of losing. Djeeta is patient, always keeps a smile on her face even when Six suddenly leaves the place they’ve been hanging out with nothing more than a choked apology.

And Gran—the name still sends ache through him, the same ache he gets when he returns home after a run. But the thing is, it’s somehow no longer _raw,_ and it’s no longer numbing; it’s been tempered into glass, and Six can still see the way the sensation drives through him, how impenetrable it is to any sort of regular vices, any sort of overarching help.

But that’s the thing about tempered glass; all it takes to break is a single, sharpened point, and everything shatters.

“I don’t even like you. Your company is in no way appealing to me.” It’s the response he settles on, and it’s the closest thing to the truth he can admit—that he’s afraid to get close to anyone again, that he’s completely irredeemable as a person, and that lost causes should remain lost causes.

“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.”

“Does your vocabulary consist solely of vacuous proverbs?”

“I know, it’s a risky choice, but fortune favours the bold.”

Siete has always, _always_ been more observant than he’s given him credit for. It’s as if he’s habituated to his own loud personality to such a degree that he can ignore it, even use it as a mask to be able to pick up on things that others hide under his cacophony.

So he really should have seen this coming; Siete has, for all his jokes, always been wordlessly accommodating, and this is no different. He’s somehow managed to carry the conversation despite Six’s refusal, managed to wheedle out of him the most information he’s revealed about his own self-esteem in a long time, and Siete’s done nothing with it, just let it hang in the air between them for Six to chase or not.

“Is that so,” Six says, dryly.

“Fortune can shine down on you, Six, I know it.” Siete’s got half a piece of cake in his mouth, but his voice is resolute, even optimistic; there’s something Siete sees in him that Six refuses to believe, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore.

The clamor of alarms in his mind rises so loudly that he can't hear himself think that if he allowed himself the room to move, to loosen the reins he keeps around his own neck to breathe, if he allows himself to try and reach out to get burnt again—

“I go once. Exactly once, I will try _once,_ and then you leave me alone until this lease runs out and I move out.” It’s a compromise, he reasons, if he complies once, and _only_ once, Siete will have to leave him alone, per request. He just has to trust that Siete would be a man of his word.

Siete purses his lips and then, after some consideration, he nods. “Cool. There’s a little shindig going on later this week.”

•

The concept of _Siete_ as a person is both made clearer and more confusing when he finally meets the people he’s closest to. The group of people he sees before him is the last group of people he’d ever expect to see together for whatever reason, but most of them seem amicable enough.

It’s a small get-together, like Siete promised, but there’s still nine of them sitting in the room, which is eight more people than Six is used to. It’s a movie night, and that quells some of the anxiety inside him, like opening an umbrella in the middle of the ocean; people generally don’t expect others to talk during movies, and it’s his one saving grace.

Siete introduces the host, a young Harvin woman who seems like the kind of person that doesn’t want to be here, or anywhere that isn’t somewhere comfortable like home. But with a heavy sigh and a hidden smile as the two of them walk in, she and Siete fall into easy patterns of making fun of each other.

Siete introduces her as Nio, and she says, voice like a heartfelt melody, “Make yourself at home. But not _too_ at home.”

The time after that is spent with Siete bringing Six around the room for introductions, some brief, some a little more... complicated. “First is worst,” Siete says, putting his hand on a set of Erune twins’ heads, and the one with the lavender hair immediately shoves an elbow back into his gut.

“Never fuckin’ touch me or my sister ever again, I swear to fuckin’—”

“Esser,” the one with the pink hair says, extending her hand for Six to shake. He feels a little silly doing it, but he returns the gesture. “That’s my brother, Quatre.”

“Six,” he offers hesitantly, and then starts to ask, “what...”

“He means well,” she says with a knowing smile, “but he’s always been a little...”

They both look over towards where Quatre has a laughing Siete in a headlock, yelling at him. “—ought we told you to stop bringing your fuckin’ dumbassdates to these things, thought that once was enough for you to learn your lesson, y—”

“...Enthusiastic,” Esser finishes. “Despite what it looks like, Siete’s helped us out of some rough spots in our lives.”

Quatre points towards his direction angrily, and Siete waves his hands and he’s laughing so hard there’s tears in his eyes. “I suppose that’s enough of an introduction of your brother,” Six says.

Esser is someone that understands the virtue of silence, and they stand next to each other waiting for Quatre to finally release Siete from his hold. She doesn’t force him to make pleasantries or divulge anything, and it lets him gather his thoughts briefly.

“Anyway,” Siete says, when Quatre’s finally through with yelling at him and has stalked off into the kitchen for a drink, “those are the twins.” Esser nods and follows after her brother. “I’ve known ‘em since they were little. Like my little brother and sister—”

“—if you _ever_ have to make me hear you call us that again—” Quatre’s voice rings out from the kitchen, and Siete just laughs.

It’s not that large of an apartment, and there aren’t many people to begin with, but the scuffle doesn’t draw anyone’s attention more than a small glance. _This sort of thing must be commonplace,_ he thinks, as Siete brings him up to an equally odd pair of people.

If Six had to guess, he’d say that the twins were about two years younger than him. The two people he sees in front of him now are at _least_ ten years older, but they don’t seem to be out of place interacting with anyone else. Okto, he mentions, he’d met at work; they’d gone out for drinks one night, and found out through a set of coincidences that Okto’s niece had been going to the same day camp that the twins volunteered at every summer. Okto was a large man, quiet, often cryptic—“he scared the shit out of everyone first time I brought him to a barbecue,” Siete snickers—but he could pull out zingers, at Siete’s expense and to everyone’s entertainment.

“Sometimes we get to babysit Okto’s niece, and she’s the sunniest thing I ever met in my life,” Siete grins.

Uno had no such coincidences, and neither he nor Siete gave any explicit details about the nature of their friendship, but it was clear that they balanced each other well. Uno carried an air of someone full of sage wisdom, like what Six would expect a father figure to be like, and it seemed as though everyone relaxed around him and sought out good advice.

Heading into the living room brought them back to Nio, who was fiddling with the sound system in preparation for the movie. She was in the same program as Siete, and why she stuck around was anyone’s guess. “Actually, Nio, why are you even here?”

“I live here,” she says, deadpan.

“I mean, why are you even friends with us?”

She pauses, traces figures in the dust on top of the stereo. “You’re all interesting. It makes me want to stay and see what sort of things you’ll get yourselves in.”

"So we're basically her lab rats," Siete says with a flourish.

"You said it, not me."

The next person Six meets is Song, who’s got a kind smile and a feather-light voice, waving at the two of them, tilting her head when she sees Six. “Hello.”

Six nods, unsure. “Hello.”

With a sheepish grin, Siete introduces her. “She works at the place I keep buying donuts from, we met in first year. Turns out she’s a friend of Nio’s, too, but I only found out after Nio came up to me and told me to stop hitting on her friend at the bakery. Her friend that already had a girlfriend.”

“No hard feelings. That was years ago, now.” Song’s laugh is like a wind chime in an open window. “Though I will say, this past while, you’ve been in the record books for buying so many donuts so regularly. Thanks for keeping us alive.”

Frowning, Six asks a question that’s been on his mind for the past few months. “How can you afford to keep giving him discounts on donuts?”

“Who said anything about discounts?” Song says, and Siete pats Six on the shoulder, starting to push him away.

“Donuts?” Another voice says, and a pair of horns breaks into his vision. A Draph girl, already with a plate of food, interjects into the conversation. He must be at least a head taller than her, not including the horns and their accessories. _“I’m_ sayin’ something about donuts. Hey, Siete, who’s this?”

“Roommate,” he says, still trying to urge Six along. It’s clear that this girl is the last of the group he has to meet, so why Siete is trying to move him away is a complete mystery.

At least, until she opens her mouth again. “You gonna fuck another roommate and not listen to us when we tell you it’s a bad idea?” The _next_ time she opens her mouth, it’s to shove a few chips in.

Everyone around her comes to a screeching stop, and then Six says, “Excuse me?”

“So, like, three years ago, Siete gets a roommate, and she’s all, ba- _boom—_ ”

“Sarasa, this doesn’t make sense,” Song says, and by how tired her voice is, Six can tell it’s a lost cause to try and interrupt her.

“—anyway, you don’t seem like a bad guy,” the girl, Sarasa, says, as if she hasn’t skipped the entire story and just gotten to the ending. “Siete’s just a dumbass, and we love him, so we gotta screen everyone he brings to these things. Although normally, he’ll bring 'em to the big shit, like with all the rest of his friends or whatever. So I got my eye on you,” she ends, and she turns around and Six backs up so her horn accessories don’t smack him in the face as she walks way.

They watch her retreating figure, and Siete groans. “She’s... that’s Sarasa.” His voice is weak, and Song simply sighs.

“Explain,” Six says, keeping his voice steady.

“If she’s gonna say something like that, I probably should, so there’s no confusion.” He drags his hands down his face, and then starts.

 

 

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _two years ago, april_

 

As much as he loves Sarasa, there’s something to be said for how blunt she is. Specifically, the _something_ being said is _Sarasa, you idiot,_ over and over in his mind.

Six is surprisingly expressive, and he can tell, even though his ears are tucked into his hoodie and his face is stony, that there’s something there that ties the way he’s reacting to this information with the way he pushes everyone away and—even under that—whatever happened last August.

He doesn’t blame him; if anyone else brought him along as a friend and this information was dropped on him, he’d be equally offended.

—Offended isn’t the right word. The more he scans Six’s face, trying to figure out where to start, the more Six reveals what he’s feeling. There’s a sense of uncertainty in the way he’s trying to keep a frown, downturn of his mouth calling for Siete to make himself trustworthy.

“It’s not as bad as she makes it out to be,” he starts, “she’s just a little... rough around the edges.

“The gist of it is that I dated a girl, and I was dumb and went a little too fast. I thought I could handle her on top of everything else I had—school, work, friends—and it wasn’t until friends sat me down and told me I was being a big idiot that I realized, well, hey, I was a big idiot."

In retrospect, he was unsure himself as to what he'd expected from the relationship. He chooses to chalk it up to a momentary, yet destructive lapse in his judgement. Maybe the prospect of having a partner in crime was too desirable for him in that moment.

“On top of blowing my friends off for no reason, I found out that she’d been going up to their faces when I wasn’t aware and trying to start shit. It didn’t work, because apparently every single person in this room has a good bullshit radar except me—”

“It’s not bad,” Song interjects, patting him on the arm in a gesture of kindness. “It was just turned off for whatever reason.”

Siete closes his eyes and huffs air out his nose, laughing. “That’s all there is to it, I swear on my life. Although, I suppose I haven’t given you much reason to trust me. And unlike what Sarasa says, being a roommate isn’t something on the checklist of ‘people I’d want to’, uh, ‘have casual relations with’. She’s referring to the fact that my ex _did_ become my roommate.

“I wouldn’t try anything on you,” Siete says, trying to placate Six as best as possible, who is increasingly looking like he’s willing the ground to collapse underneath him. “If it makes you feel any better, at least, they’ll be emailing us soon about renewing leases, and I can just find someone new to live with.”

Six’s eyes narrow at him, but there’s still uncertainty in his eyes; they flicker briefly to Song, so quick that Siete thinks he’d imagined it. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, before his voice comes out, low and gravelly: “If you try anything, you won’t be alive to worry about finding a new place to live.”

“I would never try anything like that on you,” he says, putting all of his heart into it. He realizes this is Six’s first time—however implicitly—verbalizing a desire for trust, and it’s a surprisingly heavy weight on his shoulders. But he finds that it’s a good kind of weight, the kind that makes your muscles ache the next day and make endorphins pump through your veins. He’s carried this weight for his friends before, and with even more energy, he says, “It’s never been my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _two years ago, april_

 

“Well, you want snacks or anything? I think Nio’s just about ready, so uh, you can grab a seat. Wherever’s good. Though if you want the armchair to yourself, you should probably hurry, before it’s taken,” Siete ends, a bit frantically, giving an overly-enthusiastic salute and running off.

The sigh Song lets out this time is a little longer, making her look like she’s deflating a little. “I wish I could tell you he means his best, but I know how hard it can be to put trust in people.” Her words are a bit cryptic, and Six wonders if she knows more about his history than she lets on. But the distant look in her eyes tells him she’s speaking from some experience, long gone but still scarred. Her voice washes over him, like sunlight streaming through the windows in the early morning, a gentle reminder for him to wake up.

This apartment is full of people he hasn’t known for longer than an hour, and his thoughts had already been wrung through hell and back. He almost thought, for a brief second, that he might have been able to sit down and enjoy the movie, and everything with Siete would be solved, and he could get home and start packing to move out.

The confusing thing is that the last part _should_ still be his plan. But watching Siete bounce off other people, who are willing to give as good as they get when they come to his antics, has the opposite effect. It makes Siete more human, all his awkwardness and laughter and seriousness.

How he hasn’t been deterred from what he’s seen of the man, he doesn’t know, but it’s maybe the stubborn part of him that bought the cake, the part of him that slept on the armchair a few months ago while Siete was still in the room. The alarms are blaring so loud now that he learns to filter it out, extra background noise as the rest of Siete’s friends start to congregate in the living room.

“You okay?” Song’s voice breaks through to him again, pierces through the fog of his thoughts, and pins him with the need to answer. “I know Siete drove you here, but I can make him drive you back. And don’t feel bad for it, either, not _everyone_ can handle him all the time.”

“But almost everyone can,” Six says, absentmindedly. Sarasa is trying to arm wrestle Okto on the dining table and losing every time, while Nio watches on, frowning every time there’s a loud bang on the (admittedly very nice) table. Quatre’s trying desperately to look nonchalant as his knuckles grip white on his controller, losing in some video game to Uno, who looks so focused he might actually start floating. The smell of popcorn emanates from the kitchen, and Esser is standing a few paces away from Siete and tossing popcorn into his mouth with startling accuracy (and terrifying speed). “What kind of people are you?”

Song giggles. “We’re all a little odd, I suppose. But we wouldn’t be here all together without him.”

The words sound familiar, and he tilts his head. “Esser said something similar, for her and her brother.”

“He’s full of surprises, isn’t he, Siete?” Song looks at the chaos reigning in the apartment, much too loud for the gentle smile on her face, like it’s a regular occurrence. A routine that she’s come to know and love. “He’s got a bit of a knack of bringing people together.”

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _two years ago, june_

 

The movie night was disastrous, but he’d walked out of the apartment that night with his chest a little lighter, against all odds.

Siete had started up the car at the end of the night, Six in the passenger seat, and he’d taken a deep breath and had started with _I’m sorry_ , and Six raised a hand to cut him off. He might as well have slapped Siete in the face with how surprised he had looked in that moment.

 _So as long as I have your word,_ he had said, referring to the earlier conversation that had happened because of Sarasa’s careless words, _then I can forget this entire mess tonight, if you’d like._

_What? For real?_

_Don’t make me regret putting faith in your word,_ he had said, and Siete had laughed.

_You have my word that you have my word._

Siete still invites him to other gatherings his group of friends has, and Six should find solace in the fact that he no longer feels sick to his stomach at the prospect of being invited, nor from turning down any of the invitations. But he feels more and more restless, the heat of summer slowing him down in a way he doesn’t like. He’s almost relieved when Siete comes to him one day and tells him that Song’s been asking how he’s been, and why he hasn’t been around much.

He had sat next to Song at the movie hangout, between her and the armrest, and her presence had been like something familiar to him—not in the way that Gran and Djeeta were, not even in the way Siete is. Something about Song reminds him of himself, and maybe Siete knows this. Maybe Siete knows that he’ll accept an invitation from her for coffee and snacks, because Six himself didn’t even think he would until the very moment Siete asked.

His mind is on autopilot until the very moment he sees Song approaching in the distance. She waves and Six takes a few seconds too late to wave back, and then Song is in front of him, voice as gentle as always. “I suppose it’s a good thing our buses drop us off at roughly the same place."

“What is it you want?” he asks. There’s no point in beating around the bush; he’d rather find out now instead of later whether Siete’s trying to indirectly play therapist for him.

“Just to get to know you,” she smiles. Everything about her seems kind of distant, from her light voice to the look in her eyes, but she blinks and it disappears. Something happier appears on her face, and she continues, “you remind me of me, I suppose.” She starts walking past Six, in the direction he came from, looking back at him but otherwise not verbally urging him on.

“Is that so.” Whatever she’s about to say, he knows he won’t like it; already with the few words they’ve exchanged, it feels like she understands him much more than he understands himself, and he’s not ready to drag things to the surface just yet. But he follows her, walking by her side—there’s something in her words, mannerisms, that forces him to agree that at some point, they were at least alike in some ways. He’s just afraid to find out in which ways.

“All I know of you other than the brief moments we talked a few months ago is from Siete—who’s rather tight-lipped about you to begin with, I assure you.” A smile appears on her face, a complete contrast to the heavy words she says next. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I too was alone for a long, long period of my life—imposed on me against my will, at first, and then self-isolation became voluntary, for the sake of not hurting others. But there are some real persistent people out there that care in their own way. It just takes some time to get used to.

“Of course, I can’t say the same for you. I won’t pretend I know what you want.” Song stops walking, and Six takes a few steps forward before stopping himself, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. “The hardest part of standing back up is acknowledging that you might fall again. But it gets a little easier with at least one person there that can help you.”

They both stay silent. Turning away again, he asks, “And if the person who helps you up was the cause of the fall in the first place?”

“You always have more people around than you think. You just have to be able to lift your head out of the dirt.” Everything Song says sounds like it’s right from the heart, from experience. Six doesn’t know how much he can trust matters of the heart anymore, but he can attest to experience.

“I’ve said too much,” he mutters, and keeps walking forward.

“The day hasn’t even started,” she giggles, but her steps fall in line with his once again.

(The worst part about saying something out loud, even as vaguely as he had, is that it’s acknowledgement. And acknowledgement means, eventually, moving on—into new territory, into a new life where the people in it won't necessarily occupy the same space as they do now.)

(The door chimes as Song walks in, waving to someone at the counter and letting him pick a table, and the feeling forms in his mind—not entirely a thought, it hasn’t taken a full shape—that _it’s possible that this won’t end badly.)_

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _two years ago, august_

 

The August heat creeps into the apartment, floorboards sticky against his feet even with the fans on, and Six gets sick to his stomach; it’s the hottest time of the year, and the second the humidity hits his face, he remembers the events of a year ago, when not even the falling of night could get the earth to cool down, when the air was so thick with humidity that he felt himself choke on it, the water condensing as tears on his face.

He doesn’t go outside much to begin with, but he especially doesn’t go out during this month. He lives off crackers and canned food and sleeps when his rations start running low, and it’s alright for a few days.

After those few days, though, Siete knocks on his door once, asks him if he wants anything from the grocery store while he's there. Six knows how transparent he's being; Siete's never asked him that before, because Six—for all of his aversion to leaving the apartment—kept up with somewhat regular activities outside of it, including doing his own groceries. He’d kept his food in half of the fridge, and Siete silently took the other.

But he’s sleeping more often than not because of the hunger and the tiredness, and it’s starting to take a toll on him. He hasn’t even realized how he’s gotten used to regular meals at regular hours of the day. It was a slow and gradual change, but looking back at himself from just a few months ago, he realizes just how used he’s started to return to something he could _almost_ pass as functioning.

So, to Siete’s question, he says—

“I’ve got enough food. Don’t worry.”

Siete’s footsteps don’t start up until a good few seconds, and when they do, they’re hesitant, like they’re waiting for Six to say otherwise.

When Siete leaves the apartment, he figures it’s safe to go into the kitchen and at least drink some water before taking another nap. Instead, he wakes up in the armchair with no recollection of how he got there, and the apartment air is filled with the smell of good food.

“Good, you’re awake,” Siete says. Plastic bags litter the counter, obviously filled with more food than Siete eats normally, but Six can’t find it in himself to contest. He can’t find it in himself to do much right now except listen to Siete’s voice float in and out as he cooks and puts the food he bought away. “I made extra food and I _could_ have leftovers, but since you’re already out here I might as well ask.” Six doesn’t get a chance to object, because Siete gently pulls his wrist out and balances a plate full of food on his palm, forcing him to hold it so it doesn’t fall to the ground. “Oh, look at that, you’ve got some in your hands already.”

He frowns at the plate, and then at the way his stomach rumbles when he smells the food. “Siete—”

“Nuh-uh-uh,” he tuts, “non-negotiable. I need you to taste test for me anyway, I love when people taste the stuff I cook. And Sarasa’s having her usual summer barbecue, but god forbid she try and cook again. Bless her heart, but god forbid she do _anything._ You wanna come?”

“Why?”

“Hm? Song isn’t the only one that keeps asking where you went,” Siete shrugs. “When she found out you hung out with Song, like, two months ago, she got kinda huffy about it. Says you’re fun to be around.”

“I was under the impression that neither of us had a particularly enlightening interaction.”

“Honestly, Sarasa could make friends with a rock.” The tone of his voice makes Six think she _actually_ has at some point, like he’s recalling a memory instead of making an example. “You’re significantly more alive than a rock, which means you’re already on her good side, despite what she says. Song also may or may not make her apologize, because she told Sarasa about how dumb she was and she’s felt kinda bad ever since.”

It’s August, and the heat suffocates him, bad memories rising like bile up his throat. When it rains in this month, he can still smell the piercing smell of asphalt, the rain soaking him in the few steps it took to get to his apartment, the car door slamming behind him like a gunshot.

But it was August then, and it’s August now; the Earth has made one full rotation around the sun, and although he feels like he’s stayed still in this apartment, unchanging, he’s been moving on this planet, too. It’s not very far—he’s gone from spending most of his time in his room to occasionally being in the common room, and it’s a few metres at best—but it’s better than nothing. At the least, his desire to run away doesn’t motivate him as much as it used to.

He’s a little dizzy as he sits up, black dots dancing in his vision, but he’s got a plate of curry in one hand and a spoon in the other, and that’s an invitation if he ever saw one.

Siete’s still telling stories about the various meals Sarasa’s tried to bring to parties over the years, not noticing (or not caring) that Six isn’t completely listening. It’s white noise, but it’s not harsh to his ears.

Six hates to admit it, but the best way to have started moving on was to be in contact with other people. He’d never wanted to leave the memories that he and Gran had shared, including the one that ended anything they could have had with each other. Those memories were persistent, would creep up on him when he least expected it, even when he could almost forget for a second when Siete was prattling on about something or another, when Djeeta laughed at something he said, when Song would leave a card with the box of donuts with a simple greeting. But that still left moments where he could forget, or—more rarely—remember and not have it overtake him completely.

Sure, it’s exhausting. Six can barely keep up with any of them some days, even though Siete especially seems content to talk on as always while Six gives the bare minimum indication of even listening. But it’s a good tired, a good ache, and some days he can even sleep without anything running through his mind.

“—and I didn’t even know _where_ she found dragon meat—”

“I’ll go,” Six says. “To the barbecue. But I get to leave any time.”

“Yeah, of course, I’ll get you bus schedules since I’ll be driving us there, just in case. But anyway—the dragon meat was actually pretty good, except for the part where she brought it raw and started to try and grill it right in Esser and Quatre’s apartment. It was _not_ a great day for that building, I’ll tell you that. I gotta hand it to her, though, it didn’t smell that bad until it started to burn...”

At first glance, it’s an anticlimactic response to something that Six has been debating over for almost a year: whether he should try and move on to forget, whether he was wanted in any sort of capacity, whether it was even possible to feel happy, unconditionally happy again. He likes that it’s anticlimactic, though, because it’s something he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of. It soothes something in him, in the way that Siete overreacting (joking or not) wouldn’t have.

Six lets himself breathe, sinking back into the armchair, and lets the feeling that things might be survivable eventually wash over him, stormy seas transforming into a comprehensible pattern of waves.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**six  
** _july 8_

 

Face still buried in the pillow, Six gropes around the bedside table for the bottle of water he still hadn’t managed to drink, passing it to Siete wordlessly.

Siete doesn’t take it. It’s probably got something to do with the fact that Six is passing it with his left hand. He can hear Siete shift around, and then grab the water bottle and chug.

“Fuck,” Siete says again, for good measure. Six nods into the pillow. “Are we—did we—”

“I don’t remember anything,” Six mumbles, “But someone does, and she got messages from us last night.”

The sigh Siete lets out is long, drawn out through his teeth. “Okay. Alright.” He hears Siete reach onto the bedside table and stop his phone from charging—and then he hears another long sigh, shakier than the last. “Did we—did we take this?” Siete asks, and Six doesn’t even need to look over to guess what he’s referring to.

“We took a lot of pictures.”

“We—Hm.” He hears Siete unlock his phone. “...We did.”

“Does—does any of it make sense?” Six asks in vain, mumbling into the pillow still.

Siete doesn’t say anything, but Six can hear his finger tapping against the screen, scrolling down. “We took a lot of pictures.”

“I said that.” Six sighs. “...What are they of?”

There’s a heavy pause. “Us.” Siete’s voice sounds like it’s trying to remain neutral, but there’s something there, something restrained in that single syllable that tells Six all he needs to know.

Mainly, that they’re thinking the same thing.

Six has so many thoughts running through his mind that it’s practically blank. Distantly, he can hear the cars driving by, the slow rotation of the fan in the corner of the room. He hears Siete stop moving.

“We can forget this happened, if you want.” Siete shifts again, something metal being placed against the bedside. _It’s the ring,_ Six thinks somewhere in his mind, _he’s taken off the ring._

“Hard to forget something when we didn’t even remember in the first place,” he says, more to himself, and then he finally lifts his head back up to look at his own phone. Without saying a word, he lifts his phone up so Siete can see the lock screen wallpaper.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Siete reaches out for him but doesn’t look at the phone, goes instead for the ring on Six’s finger, touches it. “We had a whole conversation and only woke up for the ending,” he mutters.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **six  
** _one year ago, august_

 

Just over two years ago, Gran had asked, _where are you gonna live once I move? Djeeta’s probably got space._

At that point, he was still trying to come to the terms with the fact that the one person he’d been able to call a good friend in a long time, someone he truly cared for from the bottom of his heart, someone who cared for him as well, someone he _loved_ , was leaving. Not leaving him, per se, but leaving everyone. _Things will work out,_ he had grumbled at the time, and Gran had laughed and patted him on the head.

_Actually, speaking of—I think Djeeta’s got a friend that needs someone to move in. Problems with his old roommate._

He’d trusted Gran. He still does, now that two Augusts have come and passed without communication. Djeeta no longer holds back in telling Six how Gran’s been doing, and Six no longer runs away at the prospect of hearing about him. _It’s nice to see you smile again,_ she says, sometimes. _It used to be that not a day would pass by where I wouldn’t worry about you, but it seems kind of silly to do that now._

Life finds some sense of normalcy in a year that’s simultaneously dragged on while staying the same. Next month, he starts his last year; Siete has been working now for a year and a half, and Six has all but stopped seeing him at the dining table at late nights of the hour. Maybe the reduced stress in the apartment has helped both of them, to some degree. Six leaves his room more often these days, and Siete had told him, _congratulations on having a vocabulary of more than ten words, by the way._ _Never thought I’d see the day where you’d actually have a real conversation with me,_ while sticking out his tongue.

And friends—he’d become enough of a regular appearance that Sarasa whines for Siete to add him to the group chat, already, so he can stop passing on messages and just hear it right from the source. It doesn’t go like she hopes; he ends up muting it, although he does scroll through it occasionally. Siete has to come into his room to tell him to _check the group chat, please and thank you,_ and there will more often than not be some sort of invitation.

Six doesn’t go to all of them. But he goes to enough. He doesn’t say much in person, either, but it’s a surprisingly pleasant experience to hear how people are doing, what sort of things are keeping them busy, how they're all going to make fun of Siete that day. Take this, for example:

A few of them have gathered at a table in the bakery Song works at, waiting for her to finish her shift. The sun is in the late afternoon phase, where the asphalt is hotter under their feet than the rays hitting their face.

"The Knickknack Shack and the bakery are getting together to have a bake-garage sale thing for charity," Sierokarte says, hopping off the stool she's sitting on and down onto the ground, wiping croissant crumbs off her fingers. "So make sure you tell all your friends."

She walks out of the door, and Quatre says, "how the hell does she have the time to do all of this when she's the only one running that place?"

Siete swallows his pastry as fast as he can, holds up a finger to stop anyone from talking. With food half in his mouth still, he says, "I just learnt a real long time ago not to question it. Just don't fuck with Siero. Don't question it."

“Speaking of not fucking," Nio says, stirring her cappuccino lightly, "How’s contestant number eleven? The blonde one.”

Quatre snorts as Sarasa lets out a screeching laugh, smacking the table and making the porcelain of their plates rattle against the table. Siete looks overly offended and says, "First of all, it's true, but you shouldn't say it. Second of all, not working.”

“Thought you got along?”

“Eh, it’s just not as fun anymore. These things are supposed to be fun.”

Sarasa puts her cheek in her hand and grins, grabbing errant blueberries off his plate. “You just sound like an old man now.”

“Surprised anyone agreed to go out with you in the first place,” Quatre scoffs, not looking up from his phone. “How you’re still trying, I don’t fuckin’ know, man.”

Of course Six has never really forgotten the reason Siete was looking for someone to live with in the first place, two and a half years ago. He’s never forgotten the way Sarasa dropped the information on him, either, but it’s more amusing to him these days than anything. Siete’s kept his word, hasn’t done anything to him that would give any sort of indication that what Sarasa said was applicable to every roommate he’s ever had.

“But someone from work is trying to set me up again,” Siete continues, ignoring both the comments. “So I’ve got a date two days from now.”

“The new hire?” Nio looks up from her drink.

“Yeah, she says she’s got someone for me.” He grimaces a little bit.

“Are you sure about that? You’re kind of out of touch with the youth.”

“All of you, mean. Bullies.”

Sarasa crosses her arms on the table and lays her head down so she’s facing Six. From the other side of the table, Nio quietly backs up so that Sarasa’s horns don’t impale her. “Hey, he ever bring anyone home?”

Six frowns. “Never. That’s grounds for immediate death.”

A bit of an exaggeration, maybe, but it’s the truth. It’s something that’s gone unsaid between them; Siete doesn’t bring people home, as if it’s obvious to him that Six doesn’t want any of that in his life. He’s not interested in hearing Siete’s sex life, in any meaning of the word. That doesn’t mean that part of him doesn’t enjoy when their friends start discussing this sort of thing in front of him, due to the fact that it’s generally at Siete’s expense, and he enjoys having ammo against him.

As someone that lives with him, Six can attest to the fact that Siete’s dates haven’t been going as well as he wants; increasingly over the past year and a half, Six has noticed that he doesn’t go on dates with the same person more than a few times at most, anymore.

He knows this only because he’s taken to asking Siete how these things go. Out of some common courtesy at first, because Six is trying to get used to watching his words, and then because of his own curiosity and so he can correct any sort of misinformation Siete tries to tell their friends. Since graduation, he had started dating again; truthfully, part of Six had been waiting for the day one of them turned out successful enough that Siete would finally kick him out.

But Siete hasn’t been successful at all, and selfishly, Six is happy for it. The apartment is in a good location and the price is reasonable, even after he’d started paying full price after signing the lease for another year. He’s made friends here, tenuous their connection to each other may be, and he feels more settled than he was even less than a year ago.

The conversation with the others cycles through his mind, two days later, as he sits with the armchair pushed up against the window. He’s got a book in his lap, but it’s raining, and the smell of fresh rain mingling with the thick artificial smell of asphalt still sends a spike of discomfort through his stomach. Memories are always so deeply tied in with scents, the sense of smell so primal that emotions can be drawn out with nothing but a whisper of suggestion.

Reading is a lost cause, mostly because of the smell of rain leaking through the cracks of the window, but Siete continuously running around the apartment doesn’t help him concentrate on the words on the page, even if he _has_ gotten used to Siete’s signs of life around the apartment.

He’d been preparing an awful lot for this date, moreso than he normally would. Siete is particular about his appearance especially on things like this, but he seems almost frantic tonight. His footsteps eventually become something of more interest to him than looking out the window at the rain fall, so he turns; it’s apparently an invitation for Siete to ask him things that he should know himself—where he’s left his keys, where he’s left his phone, where he’s left a shirt or two—and if Six is going to be roped into helping him tonight, he might as well have snacks for entertainment.

 **You** 5:56pm  
He’s panicking. What’s this girl at your work like?

 **Nio** 6:04pm  
Odd of you to contact me.

 **You** 6:05pm  
It’s just nice to have something against him.

He can almost hear Nio’s birdsong laugh in her words.

 **Nio** 6:06pm  
Oh, you’ve said enough, don’t worry.

 **Nio** 6:06pm  
Quatre might be onto something about clambering to hold onto his youth.

Getting up off the armchair, he stretches his arms and walks off to the cupboard.

 **You** 6:07pm  
I believe that was you who said that.

 **Nio** 6:08pm  
The bearer of truth is unimportant in the face of truth itself.

 **Nio** 6:08pm  
:)

The cupboard is looking a little bare, so he tries the fridge next. At least, that’s his plan, until he sees a green toothbrush sitting on the counter, bristles up and resting on a small piece of paper towel. He takes a picture of it to send to Nio, but on second thought, sends it to the group chat instead.

 **You** 6:10pm  
Someone’s losing his composure. This was in our kitchen.

He tucks his phone back into his hoodie pocket and starts going through the fridge, biting back a smile, when he hears footsteps dashing from the hallway into the kitchen. He turns up to face the source and instead gets knocked back a few steps, a warm, solid weight landing in his arms.

His reflexes are good enough to keep either of them from toppling over completely, but there’s nothing he can do for the sound of tearing fabric coming from Siete’s pants. He sees the damage first, the bright red of Siete’s boxers underneath the dark blue of his dress pants.

“How are you so fucking strong for a NEET?” Siete’s voice comes from underneath him, and he didn’t think it was possible, but he sounds even _more_ panicked.

He takes all of it in, and struggling to keep a straight face, he says, “Exercise is calming.”

It’s a lost cause. Before he can help it, he snorts; at the offended look on Siete’s face, he starts _laughing,_ full gut laughter like he hasn’t felt in a long time, at the absurdity of the situation, at the way Siete is looking at him, at the way Siete scrambles to stand back up on the tiled floor in socked feet and hobbles away screaming _this is a real crisis_ _!_

He’s hunched over in laughter, feeling tears in his eyes as Siete walks back out buttoning a different pair of pants and the car keys in his hands. He starts to put his shoes on and puts the wrong one on each foot; there are worse way to die than of laughter, Six thinks hazily, silent laughs starting to wrack him, bringing him to the floor.

“Fuck, I’m gonna be _late,”_ and Siete might as well be ripping his own hair out of his head with how frustrated he sounds, heading out the door. “Can you lock the door behind me, _why are you still laughing?”_ His voice echoes down the hallway of the apartment complex as Six closes the front door behind him, knees weak.

Objectively, the sequence of events wasn’t _that_ funny, and it’s definitely not the first time Siete’s made a fool of himself. But to this degree, on top of Siete being as sincerely panicked as he was for something Six considers trivial at best, absolutely devastated by something that would normally have been fixable in a few minutes? It’s absolutely ridiculous.

It’s the _absurdity_ of everything, Six thinks, the buildup making the payoff even better. He pours himself a glass of water and nearly chokes at the memory again. Six is no stranger to Siete’s facial expressions and general demeanour, how he plays things up to get a reaction, but this one was all real, all sincere devastation.

Six _almost_ feels bad until he remembers the look on his face, and then the laughter starts all over again.

•

Siete comes home a little later than usual, but he still comes home at the end of the night. There are nights when he doesn’t, and he has to hear him sneak in early in the morning. He always tries to tiptoe but if Six isn’t still awake by that time, he’s woken from light sleep, rendering the effort useless.

He might be home tonight, but for some reason his footsteps are still quiet. Six turns from his book and almost bursts out in chuckles again, but at the look on Siete’s face, he stops.

He looks a bit disconnected—Six is familiar with that look, has seen it on Siete's face during their late night snacks when he thinks Six can’t see, has seen it staring at him in the mirror at four in the morning when he can’t sleep.

Suddenly, he’s hit with such a powerful wave of guilt that he stands up from his spot on the couch. Siete looks at him, and Six realizes he has no plan. Siete doesn’t say anything, and neither does Six. He continues to take his shoes off, drops his keys onto the table, and makes his way back to his room.

“Do you... do you want—” Six’s mind quickly runs through the inventory he’d made of the items in the fridge earlier that night, trying to find _something_ that they could possibly munch on as tradition. “...Pickles?”

Siete looks at him and frowns. “Pickles?”

Six averts his eyes, and then looks back at him. “...The fridge is empty.”

With a huff of laughter, the corner of Siete’s mouth quirks into a smile, and then he shakes his head. “Man, do I look so bad that you’re actually _worried_ about me? Nah, I just need sleep. I’ll be back to normal tomorrow.” Six shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, but doesn’t say anything else. Siete catches the look on his face before he leaves for his room and sighs. "It’s not because you laughed at me or anything,” Siete says, somehow reading his mind. “I think... I think I’m just gonna stop dating. Let things happen."

"You? Why?"

“Man, you’re _really_ worried.” Six watches him open his mouth, close it again, look off to the side, and then back to him, halfhearted smile on his face. "I already got the love of my life right in front of me."

He raises his own eyebrows for a second, knowing it’s a joke, but still surprised at the most blatant attempt of friendly-flirting with him that Siete’s ever attempted. Fighting back the shock it sends through him, he rolls his eyes so hard that it hurts, but he says, “you seem sound enough to be joking.” Siete walks away before Six can find something else to say to convince him to stay and talk his ear off to feel better, like he always does.

Siete wakes up the next morning like nothing ever happened, and Six does the same, fighting down the concern that Siete so accurately pinned in his words.

 

 

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _one year ago, august_

 

It happens all at once.

•

Siete thought that once he’d started work and settled down a little he’d be able to start dating again. And he has, really. But it feels less and less like his heart is in the activity, that he’s finding less enthusiasm at the prospect of getting to know new people on dates. He tells himself that being so under stress constantly with his last school year burnt him out, and that he’d rather enjoy company with friends that have been with him until now instead of starting the process of trying to meet new people.

The most he’s gone is maybe three dates with the same person before something stops him, not quite willing to commit for some reason.

“I know already, why are you telling me? Hey, get the tree over there?” Quatre grumbles, only half-listening to his problems, but it’s of no concern to him whether he does or not. “This doesn’t seem to be as much of a crisis as you’re making it out to be.”

Siete walks over to the wheelbarrow and grabs the tree, walks it over to the hole Quatre’s dug on the perimeter of the orphanage. “You think?”

“I fuckin’ _know,_ idiot.” He huffs with the effort of putting the tree in the hole and picks up his shovel. “You used to have fun on these things. Now someone asks you how it was, and you go, ‘eh’. Just deal with it. Your sorry ass can cease to be an epidemic to poor single people.”

“I like to think of it not as a plague, but as a blessing. But really, it’s fun and all, but I don’t... feel like dating any of them. They’re not bad company, but something about the idea just doesn’t... seem right.”

“So you’ve stopped being horny?”

Siete frowns and opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. “No.”

“That’s already more information than I wanted to hear in my life.” Quatre makes a motion to throw dirt from the shovel onto him, and smirks when Siete ducks away. "You’re not helping. Why are you here?”

“Just wanted to see how my favourite kid brother was doing.”

“One, I’m not a fuckin’ kid. Two, it concerns me that you’re trying to seek dating advice from someone almost six years your junior, but you’re absolutely useless as it is, so maybe not. Look, if you’re gonna bother me on the job, at least help. And never call me your brother again, Esser and I have enough debts to pay off to you just from our first year of university as it is.”

“It’s not a debt, it’s helping people in my life out,” Siete objects, but lets himself be bossed around by Quatre for the rest of the day. It’s been a while since he’s done purely physical work for an entire day, working on landscaping and helping with minor repairs around the orphanage building, and the conversation gets tucked somewhere in the back of his mind.

•

He doesn’t know why he accepts the new hire’s attempt to set him up on a date, nor wants to dwell over how she knows that’s his reputation. But Chloe’s a nice enough girl, and she means her best, so he accepts the blind date she’s given him.

Despite his conversation with Quatre, he feels nervous about the date coming up, to the point where he’s needlessly fussy for a procedure he’s already done so many times before. It feels like everything’s going wrong that night, that he’s losing things despite feeling like he knows where he puts it all down—maybe it’s the added pressure of having mutual friends. He’s never been overly about whether people like him these days, he’s too old for that shit now, but as his mind gets more and more scrambled, he gets the odd feeling more is at stake than he can perceive.

Six is in the living room today, book in his lap but forgotten as he looks out the window watching the rain hit the window. His ears turn towards Siete as he runs through the apartment to try and find various things, but his gaze stays glued to the outside scenery. It’s that time of year again for Six, and rain makes it worse, but at least something’s going right today; Six may look melancholy, and that’s inevitable, but he no longer looks like the world will crumble in his hands if he reaches for it.

“Six, have you seen my dress shirt? The one with the pineapples on it?”

Six doesn’t turn to look at him, but Siete can still tell he’s frowning. “Why that one?”

“I wore everything else for work, and a fun print shows off my vibrant and exciting personality, obviously.” His voice is distracted, though, and he looks at the clock on the wall and at his still half-undressed state, making a mental note of when the reservation was, how far ahead of time he’d need to pick the other guy up, how to deal with trying to keep a decent-looking outfit while it’s raining—

“Did you check the laundry? That you asked me to bring up for you earlier today?”

Of _course._ Siete runs to his room and digs through the basket, wondering if having the iron on at the highest heat setting can get his shirt nice and crisp, like trying to cook something at 4000 degrees Fahrenheit for one minute instead of 400 for ten minutes.

As he’s considering it, his text ringtone goes off in the living room, and he leaves the iron on (ultimately at a reasonable heat) and runs to get it.

 **(Chloe’s friend)** 5:53pm  
We’re still on for tonight, right? Just making sure the rain won’t deter you!

Six is now actually looking at him, completely distracted from the rain and seemingly amused at the way Siete’s hair is practically falling out.

 **You** 5:56pm  
Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

 **(Chloe’s friend)** 5:57pm  
Alright, you charmer.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he runs back to his room and starts ironing frantically, putting the shirt on but not fully buttoning it up, instead running to the bathroom and quickly brushing his teeth. He spits and runs into the kitchen, toothbrush in mouth, and chugs water before running back to his room to check himself in the mirror.

His hair is a fucking _mess,_ and there’s nothing he can do to it that humidity won’t immediately undo, and in the summer trying to gel his hair looks sort of greasy, so he runs a hand through it and scrambles out, trying to button up his shirt.

Oh _fuck,_ where did he leave his toothbrush? It’s not in his hands, and he checks his pockets, and it’s not in the bathroom, and he runs out to the kitchen and Six is looking through the fridge, but with a knowing smile that says he knows exactly why Siete’s made a mad dash back to the kitchen.

He steps forward to grab it, and he feels his socked feet slip out from underneath him and he falls.

He doesn’t hit the ground. Hell, he doesn’t even go that far down. His first thought is, _fuck_ _,_ and his second thought is one that he voices: “How are you so fucking strong for a NEET?”

“Exercise is calming,” Six says, and his voice is actually shaking with the effort of not laughing—and then he finally breaks.

Siete stares; the sound of his laughter is like storm clouds breaking under its own weight, a torrent of rain onto the desert. It’s rare, and it’s thunderous, fat raindrops disrupting the dry sand and sending it flying, and it makes something beautiful bloom all across Six’s face.

He belatedly registers the sound of fabric breaking. “Did I—”

Through the uncontrollable laughter, Six nods, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth.

He doesn’t have the time to stop and stare at Six, whose laughter is starting to unsettle something within him (or maybe fitting things with each other, to where they should have been in the first place). He’s got a date to go to, and reluctantly, he peels himself out of Six’s arms.

_(Reluctantly?)_

He throws the toothbrush back into the cup in the bathroom, and he slips on dress shoes, and tries to focus on the night ahead of him instead of the sound of Six’s wheezing laughter, echoing down the building hallway.

•

Siete drops his date off at his apartment at the end of the night, and he opens his mouth for a bit before he can find the words. “Sorry, I was—something happened today, and—well, you deserve better than a distracted date, that much is obvious to me.”

The man smiles at him, understanding. “That’s alright. Just a bit of a shame, I thought we really got along otherwise. But if you ever get things sorted out, I’ll be around?”

“Sounds good,” Siete says, taking care to make the smile he has to put on reach his eyes. “Have a good night.”

“You too, Siete.”

He waits until his date makes his way safely to the front entrance of the apartment, and then he drives off. Going back home isn’t a choice, not now; while he might have been able to expect silence a long time ago, he knows that Six will probably still be awake at this time, most likely ready to ask another set of questions and make fun of him again. That’s not the reason he can’t go back; he needs to think, and it means he can’t talk to anyone. Not even Six, who picks and chooses his words and still somehow stumbles over them, despite trying his best.

It’s not too late yet, so there are still some people around; he drives out of downtown and out of the suburbs, driving through the forest road on the outskirts of town. The roads go from smoothly paved to the dirt road of the forest, and the crunch of pebbles under the tires only adds to the steady wash of rain against his windshield.

He parks in one of the bare-bones parking lots, at the base of a huge hill with a river cutting through the open field in front of him. Taking a deep breath, he listens to the sound of water hitting the metal hull of his car, each one like a bullet into his skull, and he hits his forehead three times against the steering wheel.

“Fuck,” he says, movements stilling. “Oh, no, no no _no.”_

_(“Jesus, that smells delicious. I’ve died and went to heaven,” Siete says, hunched over the kitchen table with his papers and laptop pushed to the side. It’s a good time for a nap, but he’s starving, and the fact that Six has started cooking doesn’t really help. He still needs to go to the grocery store, but he’s got a box of mac ‘n’ cheese left in the cupboard, so he’s good for at least tonight._

_Six puts a plate in front of him silently, before sitting down at the dinner table, knees brought up to his chin so he’s squatting in the chair. He’s taking great interest in his cutlery and says, “Something from Karm. The cuisine is one of the only things I remember.”)_

He _can’t_ fall for Six. He can’t do this when the guy’s practically sworn himself off having any sort of positive relations with anyone—despite the fact that Six has more or less already become part of his group of friends, and has become more open again, and that exactly this time two years ago was when Six had fallen apart and all Siete wanted to do was help someone who deserved it, who shouldn’t have been so hard on himself—

 _(“You were_ how old _until you stopped believing in Santa?” Siete yelps as Six punches him in the arm, but it doesn’t quell his laughter any._

_“You heard me,” he growls, ears up in irritation, “there’s nothing wrong with having believed in Santa.”_

_“Okay, but until you were_ sixteen?” _He howls with laughter. He feels tears in his eyes as his gut starts to hurt with the effort of it, but it’s worth it for the way Six’s face flushes, looking away in a grimace._

_“Evidently, he doesn’t visit everyone.” Six looks away, and Siete lets his laughter die down—he really does sound serious, and part of him feels guilty. But still, he smiles, pats him on the head between his ears._

_“I’ll put in a word to make sure Santa visits you this year.”_

_“Don’t mock me,” he huffs.)_

—who was good company when he let himself be, who never stopped working hard at anything he did, who took things way too seriously most of the time and was way too easy to tease, who let the small things speak for themselves instead of clumsy words—

_(Six’s arms are tight around him, gripping onto his forearms as he laughs above him, the sound rusty with disuse but no less genuine. Siete’s never seen him this happy before, and he thinks—as he grabs another pair of dress pants, jumps into them—there’s nothing he wants more than to see Six smile like that again, bright through the gloom always clinging to his face like a fog, like sunshowers._

_He smells like he’s been laying in the sun all day, despite the fact that it’s been raining almost nonstop; even though Six seems like one of the coldest people he’s ever met, he knows that there’s warmth underneath all of it, that Six has so, so much love to give and even more to receive, if only he’d let himself.)_

“Fuck,” he says again, for good measure, and he grips the steering wheel.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**six  
** _one year ago, november_

 

“What do you want for your birthday? Actually, when _is_ your birthday?”

A plate nearly slips from Six’s hands, but he catches it, continuing to wash it off and putting it in the rack to dry. “Why?”

“I missed it last year for sure, and the year before that,” Siete says, drying off the plates and putting them back in the cupboard. “I didn’t wanna push you or anything, but I’m gonna ask anyway ‘cause I wanna celebrate it. And I think by now you know how much of a nuisance I am.”

Six barely remembers when his birthday is—or rather, he wishes he didn’t, only ever having to write it down for official documentation reasons. There was never a need to celebrate his birthday, in his opinion. But in the years (years, _plural,_ his mind echoes in awe) that he’s lived with Siete, he’s celebrated, however small, nine other peoples’ birthdays at least twice. He’d never celebrated his own birthday, nor had anyone else in his life whose birthday he could celebrate until recently. He could give Siete any random date of the year. “December 24th,” he says instead, under the flow of the tap water.

He watches Siete’s face carefully for any sort of reaction, but he doesn’t get one other than pleased recognition. “You wanna do anything big or just spend it at home?”

Home. Was this _home?_ “If I have to see the others, make it quick.” His voice is coming out clipped, curt, hoping that Siete will get the hint that this isn't his idea of a good plan.

“Go out for dinner and then come back here?”

“I suppose.” He shuts off the tap and dries his hands, keeping himself busy while Siete puts the dinnerware back in the right places.

The idea of people making a big deal out of his birthday makes him uncomfortable. He’s more or less gotten used to the idea that others could be celebrated, but Siete wants to celebrate _his_ birthday, despite the fact that he hadn’t done anything of actual worth, whether it be around the apartment or as a person in his life. Some days, he can allow himself to relax, call the people he surrounds himself with _friends._ But faced directly with something like celebrating the fact that he was born in the first place, Six returns to the old struggle of all the years he was pushed away, never feeling like he was worth anything. In times like this, he can’t in good conscience call himself Siete’s friend; how can he expect himself to be good company?

“Just don’t get me anything,” he sighs, walking out of the kitchen.

“Is that a challenge?"

“A serious request.”

Siete responds, half a second late. “That’s rare. Still, I don’t wanna leave you hanging. Dinner’s on me?”

“...That’ll do.” Every molecule of him has to fight down the compulsion to take all of his words back, to admit there are things he wants, and that most of them are, these days, related to Siete’s company.

Siete has been simultaneously distant and warmer to him lately, ever since the night he’d ripped his pants and Six had laughed so hard he’d cried—it sent something crawling under his skin, craving the warmth while embracing the distance. Because while it was unavoidable that the two of them had eventually gotten to know each other, even become friends, Six was starting to get the feeling that Siete was getting _tired_ of him. He’d given no indication otherwise, but the change in his behaviour was enough that Six _knew_ something was different, and he didn’t want whatever they had—companionship, friendship, an understood agreement—to fall apart.

It struck Six right then and there that he _liked_ what he had going on, and that he didn’t want to lose it. “Actually, I...” He stops himself.

Siete’s head pokes out of the kitchen to where he’s standing in the hallway. “Hm?”

“...I want a cake.” It’s a stupid, childish request, but it’s the only thing he can get himself to ask for. Small baked goods have always been reserved for special occasions between the two of them, and it might be a bit much to be asking for one for just his birthday—

“Oh, _hell_ yeah, I can do that.” Siete gives a thumbs up and then pops back into the kitchen. He says it like it’s easy. (Maybe it is.)

 

 

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _one year ago, december_

  
Six asks for a cake, and he’s sure as hell gonna get one.  
  
But he can’t do it in their apartment, not when Six doesn’t leave it, especially in the winter. He never forgets the request, keeps it in the back of his mind and saves it until the day before Six’s birthday, when Song has lent her apartment’s kitchen. She offers her handwritten cookbook too, but Siete’s got a few things up his sleeve.

He walks into her apartment with the ingredients she doesn’t have available, ready to bake. Song eyes him suspiciously. “You sure you don’t need our help?”

“Is it really that unbelievable that I’d know how to bake?” he asks, setting things down on the counter. “No one ever tell you I got halfway through culinary school? Why do you think I smoked for like two years of my life seven years ago?”

Song tilts her head, still wary. “How is that even related?”

“They’re legally required to give you smoke breaks. It’s the only way out of sixteen-hour shifts. Listen—there is never _ever_ anything wrong with popping a frozen pizza in the oven when you’re tired at the end of the day,” he advises, face completely serious as he wraps a frilly apron that Silva tosses to him around his waist. “It might be the only thing that keeps you alive.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not these days. Just don’t burn down our kitchen if you insist on doing this alone,” she says, giving him a _very_ meaningful look, before walking away.  
  
Alright, so he’s a _little_ transparent. But he’d asked Song instead of any of his other friends for a reason, and that’s because she’s the only other person Six has really reached out to himself, and she knows him well enough.  
  
She knows Siete well enough, too, and the fact that she doesn’t stop him might be a good thing. Or maybe she’s trying to get him to learn some sort of lesson the hard way. She doesn’t appear again in the kitchen until Siete puts the cake pan in the oven and starts washing the bowls. She says nothing, just leans against the counter and watches Siete wash dishes. “I’ve heard you’ve stopped dating,” Song says conversationally, after a few minutes of silence, in which Siete had slowly grown more and more anxious. “You find someone?”  
  
“Next thing, you’ll tell me Djeeta’s on the other side of your front door ready to give me a stern talking-to again.”  
  
“Be careful, okay? I don’t want to see anyone get torn apart over something like this, least of all you two. Once was enough, and Gran wasn’t even part of our friend group, really. ”

“I know,” he says, letting the warm water run under his hands. Since the realization of his own feelings slammed into him with no mercy, he’s been thinking nonstop about it, whether he truly wants to see Six happy or just has a saviour complex. “And I’m... I’m not worried that he won’t feel the same. That’s practically nothing to how worried I am that I wouldn’t give him what he deserves.”

“Being worried is a good start,” Song says, kindly. “In all honesty, I don’t think I’ve seen you this conflicted about your own feelings in... maybe years, now.”

He sighs, finishing up the last of the dishes and drying his hands. “I still can’t forget when he thought I was taking pity on him, trying to invite him out—you remember that, I know you do, you and Djeeta ripped me a new one about it. What if this is just that again?”

“That was two years ago now, huh,” Song muses. “A lot can happen in two years. And I think a lot _has_ happened to Six in those two years. Maybe I should have invited Djeeta, she might be able to give more insight—but he’s changed, Siete. He’s not as volatile as he used to be. Even I can tell that much, and I only see him occasionally.”  
  
It can’t have been easy for Six to love someone like Gran and not be loved back, and Siete has been increasingly careful in not pushing Six into something he doesn’t feel for his own selfish reasons. He doesn’t want to pressure Six into liking him because he thinks Siete is pitying him, which just feels like the most demeaning thing he’d ever be able to do to him; that feeling hasn’t changed since the first time Six dropped the word _pity_ on him.  
  
Siete sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. He normally doesn’t let these things show so easily, and he’s grateful that Song is the one he’s talking to right now. “He just—he deserves to be happy.”

Siete considered moving out. He considered moving out, and leaving Six the apartment, and confessing and cutting ties—but Six had slowly become so integrated with his friends, with his life, that it just wasn’t a viable option. And he didn’t want Six to lose another friend, and Siete separating from all of his friends wasn’t an option, either. Doing that would have also been much too similar to The Gran Incident, and he stops that train of thought immediately.

So he stays, and he’s simultaneously trying to distance himself while trying to keep up appearances, but it’s hard when he starts noticing the way Six always takes a small bite into his food, nibbling around the edges before devouring the rest of the meal, or the way his ears will twitch at every little sound, even if it’s familiar, or the way he sneezes exactly three times the exact same way, _every single time._

The past year has filled him with optimism from watching Six opening up more; now, he feels horror creeping around the edges, trying to figure out where to draw the line between caring for Six as a friend and going to the ends of the earth to see him smile.

Augusts are different; they always are, and they most likely always will be. Six is quieter than usual, but more or less back to the person he had met two years ago, the one that was awkward and didn’t know how to talk but didn’t otherwise abhor his company. Except Six isn’t awkward now, just quiet, and still a little rough with his words, but he’s out of his room for longer than he used to be, and sometimes his phone will go off on the coffee table while he’s in the bathroom and one of his friends _(their_ friends) will have texted him, and Siete finds a smile on his face.

People at work still try to set Siete up with others, but he slowly turns them all down, saying that he’ll just let these things happen—and Sarasa pokes fun at him and calls him a stuffy old grownup, _talking about just lettin’ the future happen is old people talk,_ and he sticks out his tongue and when he gets home he gives Six a noogie to get himself out of the fact that Six has caught him staring.

There’s no way out of this without someone getting hurt. Siete knows this, and he’s going to try his damnedest to make sure it’s him that gets hurt and not Six.

“Mm.” That’s all Song says, like she knows his head’s suddenly been dragged underwater by turbulent memories.

“The other day,” he says, slowly blinking back into the present, “he laughed at me so hard he cried.”  
  
Song raises her eyebrows, urging him to keep going.  
  
“I’d never heard him laugh that hard before. Or smile that wide. It—god, oh no.”  
  
“He’s cute,” she says, biting back a smile.  
  
“That’s _not_ helping.”  
  
“What’s not helping is that you don’t know whether you want to pursue this or not. Commit to one or the other. Indecision will cost you... a lot of things. And I’ve never known you to be indecisive.”  
  
“I feel like you’re his mother and I’m asking you for his blessing,” he says, diverting the conversation sheepishly.  
  
“I don’t know how I feel being called a mother at my age,” Song says, rubbing at her arm and smiling, “but if that’s what it takes to make sure you don’t mess anything up, then so be it. We need to make sacrifices sometimes.”  
  
She responds to his joke _and_ manages to give him another warning about he’s doing. She’s way too good at this, has known him for too long.

But he already knows he needs to make the sacrifice. He’s already made his choice and placed himself on the altar, waiting for judgment.

 

 

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _one year ago, december_

 

 _You think you were nervous on that date with Chloe’s friend?_ The thought is laughable. _You ain’t seen nothing yet._  
  
Siete doesn’t go home for the holidays, and Six hasn’t made a single mention of his family the entire time Siete’s known him. So around this time of year, the apartment is always occupied. His friends will get together for something at least one of the days over the holiday— _we’re the only family some of us have,_ Uno had said once—but it’s otherwise a quiet season, spent watching the snow fall and dreading the trek outside.

Tonight in particular, the snow is piling up, the warm orange cast of the living room lamp dyeing the snow that sticks to the window frame outside. The two of them are on their laptops in the living room, Siete more impatient than usual, eyes darting to the corner of his laptop every so often to watch the clock tick down to midnight. The cake he made with Song yesterday is in the fridge, and he’s got a little succulent he picked up from Siero the other day—even though Six said he didn’t want anything, he’d gotten something _anyway,_ and he’d for some reason gotten the wildest idea that Six would, for some reason, enjoy taking care of plants.  
  
But now, he’s not so sure. The only request Six had made was the cake, which he’s made, and what if Six _really_ didn’t want anything, and it was nothing but bad memories for him, and Siete fucked up by trying to be nice? He’d tried his best to not make a big deal out of the day; it took nearly two and a half years to even get the date out of him, and as badly as Siete wanted to celebrate it with the rest of his friends, the only person he’s told is Song, who he knows can swear to secrecy.  
  
When the clock strikes midnight, he looks up at Six to already find Six looking at him. “Happy birthday,” he grins, “now close your eyes.”  
  
He opens his mouth like he wants to protest, but with an almost pleading look, as if to say _no bullshit tonight, please_ , he complies. Siete stands up and runs to his room, grabbing the small plant, and then running to the kitchen to take the cake out of the fridge.  
  
He takes the candles tucked in the back of the kitchen drawer and lights them up, dimming the lights in the living room. “Happy birthday, dear Six,” he sings, drawing the vowel sounds out, and Six opens one eye just to frown at him. “Happy birthday to you!” Six looks uncertain when Siete puts the cake down on the table in front of him, as if somehow, this cake wasn’t meant for him. Laughing, Siete sits next to him and he says, “you’re supposed to blow the candles out and make a wish in your head.”  
  
“I know that,” Six grumbles, ears twitching in irritation, but his face softens as he looks at the cake with the candles, and in the dimness of the living room with nothing but the candle flame, Six allows himself to smile.  
  
He worries a lip with one of his canines, and then he blows out the flame, watching the barely visible smoke rise up in the air. The smell of the extinguished candle is sharp and fills Siete’s lungs, rising up to his head, and he asks, “What’d you wish for?”  
  
Six doesn’t answer, but the light coming in from the kitchen illuminates the way his cheeks turn red as he turns to face him. It’s then that Siete notices how close they are, sitting side by side on the couch, and Six breaks eye contact shyly, putting an arm on one side of Siete, and leans in while closing his eyes, and—

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _one year ago, september_

 

“Have you seen the group chat?!” Siete shouts through his door, not even knocking. He jolts from his half awake state where he’s sitting at his table, knees slamming against the underside of his desk, and it knocks over the _just found out I was a big asshole!_ card. He leaves it, cursing under his breath, and tries to focus on the notification light blinking in the corner of his phone.

Six losing sleep isn’t an uncommon occurrence, but the prospect of sleeping through the day isn’t as appealing as it used to be. He still gets nightmares, but they’re nightmares of a different flavour, one where he’s happy and nothing wrong happens, and he lives his daily life without the shackles of the past dragging against his ankles, and he has friends to apply alcohol to where the skin has been rubbed raw.

No, the nightmare is that he wakes up, and every waking thought comes seeping back in. _Better to have loved and lost_ is the first alarm that blares after a dream like this; he falls for it over and over and _over_ again, every year of his life, and yet he can’t help it, can’t help _hoping_ whenever anyone shows him kindness.

But he’s never had this many people around him before. He’s never been in a group chat before—and even if he doesn’t say anything, he reads all of it, and they still find a way to talk to him. And in the past, he would have found it annoying, but now it fills him with a dangerous sense of hope.

It might be more accurate to say that his nightmare is waking up, because there are some—

_(“The reservation’s at 7pm,” Siete says, running around the apartment. He’s wearing the pineapple print shirt and his pants are completely intact, and the toothbrush is still in the kitchen, and Six picks it up and drops it off in the bathroom._

_“I don’t take as long as you do to get dressed,” and Six knows the voice is his, but at the same time it isn’t. It’s too full of the fondness that thought he’d never be able to let himself express again, and yet it feels familiar, the warmth seeping in like the sun rising._

_“But it’s raining, I can’t drive like I do with the top down and blast Running in the Nineties, y’know? You’re the best when you’re in one piece.” Siete pops his head out of his room as Six walks by and tries to kiss him on the forehead, missing and banging his chin against his forehead instead. “Ow.”_

_“Your fault,” Six says, and he feels a small smile spread across his face. But he stops before he gets to his own room so he can get changed, and Siete grins happily and leans him, kissing him on the lips instead, before smacking him on the butt to urge him forward._

_“Now hurry up and get dressed.”)_

—the knocking on his door increases. He pats his cheeks and, phone in hand, he stands up to open the door.

“Dude, let me _in,”_ Siete says, and he’s never seen Siete this excited before, and he steps aside and watches as he flops onto his bed on his back and grins.

_(This, too, had happened—there was another dream, just like this, but Siete’s smile was gentler in that dream than it is now, with a hint of mischief, cheeks flushed and—)_

“—lo? Earth to Six?”

“Haven’t been sleeping,” he says. It’s not wrong.

The notification light is staring at him from his phone, and Siete holds his phone above his face and starts scrolling upwards. “I’m losing my _mind—_ it was only a matter of time, but holy _shit—_ _”_

He tunes Siete out as he unlocks his phone and opens the group chat. It’s full of screaming from Sarasa, a bunch of happy stickers from Siete, messages from everyone else that are more upbeat than usual, and as Six reaches the top of his unread messages, his heart stops.

 **Song** 5:43pm  
Guess what happened yesterday!!

Exclamation marks are already strange from her, let alone two of them, but it’s not hard to guess why; attached to her message is a picture of Song and Silva, right hands up to the camera and matching gold bands on their ring fingers.

 **Sarasa** 5:44pm  
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

 **Quatre** 5:44pm  
well, goddamn. seriously, congrats.

 **Nio** 5:44pm  
Finally.

 **Nio** 5:44pm  
:)

 **Sarasa** 5:45pm  
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

 **Quatre** 5:45pm  
sarasa, shut the fuck up.

The messages are all various states of congratulations and screaming, and Song posts closeups of the ring and Silva’s, and he can’t help it; he scrolls back up to the picture of the two of them. Song looks so happy her eyes are still teary, and Silva isn’t even looking at the camera, instead looking at her with so much love in her eyes it’s tangible through the screen, like the love is being aimed at Six himself. The wedding is scheduled for August, and when he reads the word, he doesn’t get the same twist in his gut anymore—it’s there, dormant, always waiting to remind him of what had happened, but for the first time in a while, he thinks he might be able to look forward to August.

There’s suddenly a new message from Siete, and without looking up at him, Six opens it.

 **Siete** 6:13pm  
Congrats on waking up to the news

He feels heat rush to his face; not because Siete’s sent a picture of him, but because of the unfiltered emotion on his face. He’s standing there in an old hoodie with the hood up, but he can still see the way his face is open in something he can’t describe as anything but _wonder_.

He looks at himself—the bags under his eyes, the paler-than-usual complexion, his scraggy hair, and the raw hope and excitement he feels for his friends.

His _friends._

There’s a new message in the group chat, and it’s reminding him that he’s willing to break his characteristic silence for the sake of congratulating Song.

 **Siete** 6:14pm  
Six literally just woke up. I’m sitting in his room and he hasn’t said anything yet but he looks he was just given a billion dollars

He flips Siete off, but there’s no heart in it.

 **Song** 6:15pm  
Cute!!

He starts typing, and everyone else in the group chat stops immediately. He tries different messages— _congratulations on the engagement,_ just _congratulations,_ all the variants he can think of—before he stops, erases everything, and just sends a happy looking sticker of a dog holding balloons.

The group chat explodes again, and he bites the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling and tucks the phone in his hoodie pocket. “Now, get out of my room.”

•

_(“I do,” Siete whispers in front of the altar, hushed and fragile and open, and slips a ring with shaking hands onto Six’s left ring finger.)_

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _that year, january_

 

“Happy new year!” Everyone in the room screams, lifting glasses in the air and cheering.

Six doesn’t follow through with the only tradition he knows about New Years on midnight; Siete is looking at him, fireworks reflected in his eyes and lips cherry red, but the champagne isn’t strong enough to try and his mind is startlingly clear, committing every detail to memory.

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _that year, february_

 

_(Six feels like he’s ablaze all over, sinking into the sheets below him while Siete looks down at him, hands burning the naked skin he touches, and Six reaches his hands up into Siete’s hair and pulls him down. Their lips crash together, waves in a storm, and Siete smiles against him, says—)_

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _that year, march_

 

“Does my ass look good in this?” Six hears Siete’s voice from outside the changing room, and Quatre groans. The girls are all looking at dresses with Song and Silva, and since Okto couldn’t find anyone to take care of Funf, she'd joined the rest of the girls—and by that point, they had decided to kill two birds with one stone, looking for matching rental tuxes.

Six refuses to leave the changing room. He’s all dressed, and everything fits just fine, but he can feel the slide of smooth material of the suit jacket against his exposed back, and that’s enough for him to freeze, looking at himself in the mirror. He lifts the jacket up slightly and sees his back again, and swallows.

Erune fashion is of no problem to Quatre and Esser, who have no qualms about summer outfits exposing their backs. Most Erunes don’t, but Six isn’t most Erunes, and he doesn’t want anyone to see as much skin as he’s showing, even if it’ll be tucked underneath the suit jacket the entire time.

It's especially bad for him in the summer, when temperature dictates he should have no choice but to go outside with his back exposed, but he always finds a way to work around it. Siete's given up on trying to get him to dress lighter— _when I die and they do the autopsy, they'll find that the cause of death is because I've been looking at you dressed like this in thirty-degree-Celsius weather—_ but that just means when he checks the freezer, there's always ice cream or popsicles, and in the fridge there'll be cold drinks. He ends up needing them every time he sees them, because he suddenly feels warm all over, and he has to pat his cheeks with the ice cream containers to cool down in his already overheated state.

“Six,” Uno knocks, his voice calling through, “are there any problems with the fit?” From the sound of it, the other four are already out of their change rooms, and he shakes his head to clear his mind.

“No,” he says, voice coming out pathetically pinched and higher than normal, and he tries to pass it off as a cough. “No.”

“Well, come on out, see if we all match.”

He takes a few calming breaths and unlocks the changing room door, closing his eyes and feeling his ears flatten against his head. Quatre whistles, and in his trademark bite, he says, “well, someone cleans up nicely. Thought I’d be dead before I ever saw you in something that wasn’t a hoodie.”

Heat creeps up his neck, and Uno puts a hand against his lower back—not bare, he reminds himself, the suit jacket is covering him—and says gently, “Let’s see how we all look in the mirror.”

He takes shaky steps forward in his dress shoes. He sees—he _wants to believe_ he sees Siete looking at him, sparkle in his eyes that mirror something from his dreams. (But twinkling stars only come out at night.)

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _that year, april_

 

He finishes writing his final exam, and he drags his feet all the way home. The heat has come and went in waves, earlier than usual, and while earlier that week was chilly enough for a windbreaker, it’s so hot now that he feels like his mind is hazing over from the unexpected heat and his extra layers of clothing.

Siete’s already home. “Air con stopped working in the office, and they sent us all home,” he says, lying on the floor of the living room. “There’s lemonade in the fridge. Actually, can you bring me some?” His shirt is completely unbuttoned, dress pants shucked off in a corner, and the fan on the medium setting rotating, blowing his hair around.

Six opens the door and grabs the lemonade pitcher, watching the condensation fall down the side of the pitcher.

He needs to water the succulent.

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _that year, may_

 

It's too hot for this, but he can't sleep, even though he went on a run today and his muscles ache and all signs point to him being able to fall asleep dreamlessly, but he hears Siete's light snoring coming through on the other side of their shared wall, and _(the sticky drag of his hands against Siete’s back, clinging tighter, so hard that he knows he’ll be leaving red scratch marks all over it, and he wants, mine, mine,_ mine—)

 _I would never try anything like that on you,_ he suddenly hears, in Siete’s voice, and he sits up in his bed just as suddenly, hunches over, runs his hands through his hair so desperately his nails are digging against his scalp. The ghost of (his) touch whispers down his neck, across his chest, lower, as his mind brings him back to Nio’s apartment and Siete’s serious face and Siete’s steadfast voice and sincerity and the words _I wouldn't try anything on you,_  like some sort of sick joke his brain likes to tell him, over and over and over, when he gets like this.

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _that year, june_

  
“Huh. Your birthday’s next month,” Six muses, sitting on the couch, draped over the armchair with his eyes closed. The sun is at its highest, and it’s casting warmth onto him, and he feels comfortable enough to fall asleep.

“Sure is.”

“Has it been three years already?”

“Goddamn,” Siete whistles. “I remember when you hated me. Good ol’ times.”

He hasn’t hated Siete in a very long time (if ever, but that depends on his mood of the day). The past half year has only proven that he does consider Siete a friend, and his subconscious tells him he craves something more than that, something that nearly tore him apart last time he tried it, mind, body, and soul.

But it’s a rush this time to see how closely he can balance on the edge, how close he can get to Siete without him noticing. This is the beginning of the end, the alarms sound, the noise shrill and piercing after so long of having not heard it. He’s getting reckless, playing with fire, letting it consume him, letting it rise up through his body and devour him.

The dreams didn’t just come from nowhere. This, he knows, has completely denied their existence until recently. It’s taking too much mental energy to fight back what he wants when he lives with the man, has to see him every day, listen to his voice. There’s no way for Six to pinpoint when he’d started trusting Siete, when he’d started to call him a friend, when he’d started wanting more than just one-sided conversations.

When he’d started _wanting._

Six snorts. “Yeah, I don’t hate you anymore, now I just—”

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _that year, july_

 

 _(“—love you,” Six chokes out. He knows without being told that it’s August, can tell by the way the rain beats against the windshield, the_ thick artificial smell of asphalt _assaulting him. He clenches his fists and looks away, opening_ the passenger door into the pouring rain _._

 _But before he can move,_ the sound of his voice over the thunder makes Six stop _,_ _and_ _there’s a hand on his, and when he turns around it’s not_ _G_ _ran anymore, but it’s_ _Si_ _ete, looking like he_ was just given a billion dollars, _and he puts_ an arm on one side of _Si_ _x,_ and leans in while closing his eyes, and—)

 

 

 

 

 

 ******siete**  
_one year ago, december_

  
When the clock strikes midnight, he looks up at Six to already find Six looking at him. “Happy birthday,” he grins, “now close your eyes.”  
  
He opens his mouth like he wants to protest, but with an almost pleading look, as if to say _no bullshit tonight, please_ , he complies.

Siete watches his eyebrows knot, in the way concentration and uncertainty blend together to become hope, and he tells himself to stop being so selfish. It's Six's birthday, not his.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	5. Chapter 5

**six  
** _july 8_

 

“I’m sorry.” It’s Six’s first reaction to apologize—but for what, he doesn’t know.

“Why?”

“It’s... all of this, a mess. I’ll forget it if you want to.”

“Do you want to?” Nothing in Siete’s voice reveals what he’s thinking or what sort of answer he wants out of Six; for four short words, they’re devoid of the usual indicators of Siete’s emotions, his intentions. Six swallows. “What do you even remember?”

“The last thing I remember was—” his hand on Siete’s cheek, leaning in, the first kiss, running out into the streets, and after that, everything’s _gone_.

“Because the last thing _I_ remember,” and all the traces of hesitance in Siete’s voice have disappeared, almost accusatory now, “was _you,_ kissing _me,_ while we were still in the pub.”

Six is filled with a swirl of emotions, shame and guilt and embarrassment and somehow, above it all, _giddiness_ that Siete’s remembered _._ “...I as well.” he swallows. “I... only remember bits and pieces. I don’t remember the beginning of the night much, either. But I remember feeling...” The word he wants to say is like sandpaper against his throat, and he shuts his eyes tightly, readying himself for any repercussions. "Content." _No._ "Happy."

This is the part where he moves out, where Siete laughs at him in disgust, admits it was just a drunken mistake because he was lonely, and that Six is left in the dust again—gambled it all on a risk bigger than ever before by daring to let himself fall for one of his only close friends, and now having to separate himself from the rest of the circle of friends he’s made and come to like.

“I’m sorry,” Six says again, this time anxiety constricting his throat, “I was selfish again, when I told myself I wouldn’t be. This mess is my fault.”

There’s a hand on his head, scratching at the base of his ears, and it instinctively calms him down. He breathes in deeply, breathes out, tries to steady his breathing and the involuntary tightening of his throat.

“You wanna talk about this over some food?” Siete asks, voice kinder than it had been a minute ago, like he’s doting on him for whatever reason. The motion continues for a bit, letting Six ground himself before he nods.

Still, he doesn’t get up yet, letting himself calm down and steady his breath. The sun through the curtains is warming him up slowly, and he absorbs every ray, feeling the heat soak through the back of his head, against his shoulder blades and down his back, and he sighs. The hand on his head stills, and Siete chuckles.

“You good?” Truthfully, he’d like to go back to bed again. He’s gone through enough emotional turmoil just being awake for half an hour, and he wants a few more hours of sleep to truly be able to process this. But his stomach grumbles and reminds him that other things take precedence, and he mumbles assent. Nothing can prepare him for the next words out of Siete’s mouth, said so nonchalantly that Six might have considered that he misspoke: “I’d love to take the opportunity to tell you how much I love you again.”

Six turns around to face him so fast he thinks he might fall off the bed. His head is throbbing with the action, but it’s worth it to see the look on Siete’s face right now, embarrassed grin and cheeks dusting pink. He frowns with the effort of wrapping his head around what Siete’s trying to tell him. “But—”

Siete’s phone goes off in his hand, and he looks at the caller ID and winces before picking up. “Though I guess we should answer Song—”

“I am outside your door,” Song says into the receiver, and even though her voice is normally pleasant, there’s an edge of something sharp in it. “And you two are going to explain _everything,_ and not leave me on read, because neither of you texted me to say you got home last night safe.”

“Uh, okay—” Song hangs up.

Siete gets off the bed, stretching, and it’s now that Six remembers the state of undress they’re in, the unanswered question. Siete takes off his shirt and looks at his back in the full length mirror. “Someone’s a biter,” he mutters while running his hands over his neck and shoulders, just loud enough for Six to hear, and it mortifies him. Over his shoulder, Siete grins at him. “No complaints. Does anything hurt?” He slips his shirt back on, putting on a pair of sweatpants.

The implication makes Six’s face flush, but he moves experimentally, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. “The only thing that hurts is my head.” He stands next to Siete in the mirror and doesn’t even have to pull his collar to the side to find matching red marks, and his eyes widen, ears flattening against his head.

“Sorry,” Siete laughs, not sorry at all. He leans down slightly, like he’s making the motion to kiss his forehead, but decides against it with a wry grin.

Siete goes to open the door for Song and Six stays standing in front of the mirror; he squeezes his eyes shut and groans under his breath, trying to recall anything else from that night—he wants to know, but at the same time he doesn’t, at least not until he’s had food in him. Rubbing a hand over one of the hickeys, he feels heat flood his face, both at how obvious the mark is as well as the idea that both of them did this to each other, so enthusiastically neither of them cared about what it would look like the next day.

Trying to flush the thoughts out for Song’s sake while she’s here, he shuffles back to his room and pulls out a sweater and pyjama pants. He hears her footsteps march in and drop something on the table as he pads out into the main hallway, every step sending shivers through him. “Morning,” Siete says, trying and failing to keep an even tone.

Song looks at the two of them, takes out her phone, and pulls up her voicemail, wordlessly playing one of the saved messages.

 _I—I got a plus one!_ Siete’s voice is so loud it nearly blows out the speaker, and for extra emphasis, Song turns the volume up. The words are nearly unintelligible, but Six hears enough. _To your wedding! Fuckin’—fuckin', congrats! I love you, Song, never forget that, and—so fuckin’ glad you’re my friend—fuck, can you be my maid of honour? or Six’s? We—_

It cuts off with a beep, and then Song puts her phone down. She silently looks at both of them, sporting equally guilty looks on their faces. “Your rings are still on,” she says, non-committal. “Six, have you seen the message Siete sent me?”

He shakes his head, and she flicks her head at Siete. Pausing for a moment, Siete unlocks his phone and slides it towards Six, wordlessly.

“You two are deaf to the sins of the world. Remember this.”

 **You** 1:38am  
Og my fucking GO

 **You** 1:38am  
D

 **Song** 1:39am  
Are you okay? Are you still with Six?

 **You** 1:41am  
I LOVE him

And underneath that, a picture of the two of them—one of the many they’d apparently taken that night—similar to the one that’s Six’s lockscreen right now. It’s blurry, the white balance is horrendous, but the happiness on their faces is so raw that Six’s heart skips a beat.

He bites his lip, unable to look at the picture for much longer; he’s embarrassed at how happy he is, how seeing himself and Siete so _happy_ circulates through his veins, until his face starts to feel warm again, and he has to cover his mouth with a hand and look away.

“...You know what? Just tell me later,” Song says. There’s an exasperated smile on her face, and it looks like the word _idiots_ is on the tip of her tongue. “Looks like you guys still need to talk. Make sure you eat,” she says, waving a hand to the plastic bag of containers sitting on their dining table. “Silva got me to bring leftovers. Just wash the containers and bring them back whenever.”

The front door shuts behind her, and Six feels Siete’s gaze on him, and he turns red again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _july 7_

 

Spending birthdays alone has never been his plan, and he makes it a habit to keep his entire day full with other people’s company.

Six is with him when he wakes up in the morning and eats breakfast with him, but doesn’t join any of the festivities until evening, when Siete and their group of friends go out for dinner and drinks. By the end of the night, Siete’s feeling a little tired, but not enough to pass out as soon as he gets home; it wouldn’t be a successful night otherwise (and besides, he’s barely seen Six today, and he wants to spend more time with him; he’s allowed _one_ birthday wish, right?).

The fact that Six even joined them, let along follow along with the rest of them to the pub, was enough of a surprise birthday present in itself. Six doesn’t usually drink in public—has done so in the company of good friends or just a couple of them in the apartment—so him being here with a relatively large group of people in a loud place is unheard of.

It’s even more of a surprise to him that when the others have gone home and only the two of them remain, Six is still here. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“Should I not be?”

“No, it’s just—aren’t you uncomfortable? You don’t normally drink out in public like this.”

“And what, leave you alone? I don’t want cops knocking on my door at three in the morning, presenting me with you in this pathetic state. If it’s preventable, then this burden I shall bear.”

“Way to make a guy feel loved,” he jokes, but it comes out a bit more sour than he plans it to; even Six looks taken aback for a second before he frowns in concern. His thoughts are starting to bleed through, too tired to keep the stitches closed. “No, just—I thought I’d find someone by now, y’know? Seeing Song and Silva happy together makes _me_ happy—and I love them, don’t get me wrong, but I think, kinda wish I had that. Sort of thing. Someone to come home to.”

Six looks like he’s struggling to say something, and decides on, “didn’t you decide to stop dating?”

“Not my fault _someone_ came into my life and stole my time and effort and my heart,” he mumbles, rubbing at his face with a hand. “No. I willingly gave my time and effort. Ah, fuck. Fuck.”

“...‘Someone’?”

Siete hums.

“...How long?”

Frowning, he starts counting off backwards on his fingers. _July, June, May, April_ —“Damn, almost a year ago.”

“What’s stopping you? It’s not like you to not go for what you want, regardless of consequences.”

 _Well, he’s sitting right in front of me listening to this bullshit, first of all._ Six is right, he’s struck out as many times as he’s scored, and the prospect of rejection has never been one to keep him from trying once. Why _hasn’t_ he?

Because Six is a whole other story; he’s never tried to ask someone out who he was _this_ close to, and he’s never tried to ask someone out that seemed uninterested not just in him, but in any sort of romantic prospects.

Six has bounced back from however long it’s been—almost three years, now? And he’s out of the house, and he laughs, and he talks with Djeeta again, and he smiles, and he has friends. But Siete doesn’t know if he’s still hung up on his first love, and that’s fine. Always the first. He still remembers his first serious relationship, even though the feelings are long gone. Must be worse for a guy that hasn’t had his feelings reciprocated, let alone even had a serious relationship. Has he had a serious relationship? He might have. He doesn’t know. Six never talks. He’s happy enough where he is, with Six’s company and the rest of their friends and seeing him happy, and he reminds himself that Six is graduating next year, which means he’s most likely moving out, which means Siete can _finally_ start the process of moving on.

Although part of him doesn’t want to until he’s at least _tried—_ it takes considerable effort to try and remind himself why that would be a bad idea, but it’s obvious enough when he stops and slowly processes it. “It doesn’t make sense to, considering who we are. As people.” He doesn’t know how long it’s been since Six even asked, whether everything came to him in a second or if he’d been sitting there for an hour, silent, like the idiot he feels like. “I’d rather keep the friendship—when did you get so good at reading me?”

“It’s not hard. All I have to do is lower myself to your level of thinking.”

“Ouch,” he says, no emotion in it. He could laugh at how stupid he was being, talking about the person he liked to his face, acting like a fucking high schooler.

“What are you laughing at?” Oh, shit, he _is_ laughing, a little bit.

It’s been almost a year—it was August when everything hit him, and since then he’d slowly been teetering on the edge. He was waiting for his feelings to tide over, even played with the idea of dating again, but something in him stopped every time he picked up his phone and thought about asking his friends to hook him up with someone. “I didn’t start dating again because I didn’t wanna make him think he wasn't important to me,” he says, voicing his thoughts aloud—verbalizing things helps him process it. Maybe that’s why it’s taken this long for him to try and get over Six. “Which is stupid, because he doesn’t even—we’re not even a _thing._ Like, we're  _friends._ And it’s not even that he doesn’t know I’m available. He does. I’m—I’m pretty sure he does. I’m emotionally available, but... but for _him._ Fuck. Does this makes sense? Fuckin' nothing makes sense.”

He looks up at Six, whose eyes are wide, mouth pulled in a slight grimace. “I... what am I supposed to say to this?” he asks in a small voice, the one Siete knows to be the one that only comes out when he’s most unsure, worried, anxious about something. His mouth is turned in genuine concern, ears up straight and shaking slightly.

 _Tell me what kind of feelings you have for me,_ he thinks. _Tell me whether you’d ever consider letting someone into your heart again as more than friends,_ he thinks. “Buy me another drink?”

Six visibly relaxes, and Siete tries, with an edge of desperation, not to start laughing at the irony.

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _july 7_

 

“Song’s wedding is already next month, what th’fuck?”

Six hums absentmindedly, barely able to focus on Siete’s rambling when the floor constantly threatens to spring up and smack him in the face. They’re still in the corner of this pub, even when the others have long gone, and he feels mostly responsible for getting Siete to this state.

“I don’t. I don’t even have a plus one. Every one of our friends got invitations— _fuck,_ we’re all bridesmaids, groomsmen—that—that’s you, too.”

“What?” The words bubble out of his mouth, like he’s underwater, and he struggles to follow the conversation.

“Just sayin’,” Siete slurs, “’m twenty seven and I haven’t had a serious relationship in. Years. I love you all. I love you all so much. I love Song, I’m so fuckin’ happy for her, and I love Okto, and I love Uno, and I love Sarasa even though she’s a fuckin’, _idiot_ , and—you all make fun of me, but I know you all love me,” he says, so sincerely, that Six’s heart almost aches.

“We do,” Six reassures quickly, patting him on the back, vaguely registering that it would be awful if Siete makes a scene in here. At this point, it doesn’t seem like anything he says—truth or not—will get Siete to slow down something that seems like a self-destructive path of thoughts.

“Probably. And then there’s you.” Siete spits out the word _you,_ and Six halts his motion, suddenly scared he’s stepped over some invisible line. "You, you, I love you. More than I should.”

“More—more than you should?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Siete laughs heartily, head falling back before stilling.“R’member when I called you a NEET, and you caught me, on that last date I had?” Siete puts his forehead on the sticky, disgusting table surface of the table, and Six holds his breath. “Fuck, my head. Augh. You—you were so strong. I knew I liked you that very _night_. I drove... drove around town, and then I sat in the car and hit my head on the steering wheel thinking about you. You laughed,” he mutters to himself, but it’s loud enough that Six can hear. “You laughed, and—and fuck what Nio says, I found the best... the best fuckin’ sound in existence.”

Underneath his frown, his eyes are glassy. Six wants to reach out, like his dreams, where Siete leans down and brushes his cheek, or when Six stops him in the hallway for a quick kiss, or—

Siete’s head turns towards him, eyes wide, and Six realizes his fingertips are already skating across his cheek. They stare at each other, and his mind is blaring at him to retract his hand and retreat from the unknown, but he convinces himself it’s a dream, continues reaching out, smoothing out the crease between his eyebrows, letting his hand rest on Siete’s cheek. Sighs. He feels—he feels the warmth, but whether it’s from the alcohol or if Siete’s actually embarrassed, he doesn’t know.

He can’t let go. He can’t break contact, because he wants this so badly, all the dreams he’s been having coming to haunt him now as he cups Siete’s cheek, thumb running over the skin. Siete closes his eyes, eyelashes fluttering over his arms. He turns his head and kisses Six’s palm, and Six, he—

_I would never try anything like that on you._

He leans in, the ruckus of the pub turning into white noise as his entire consciousness focuses in on Siete, his face, the way Siete’s eyes are full of surprise and uncertainty and hope, and he presses their lips together.

At least, that’s the plan, but the angle is awkward, and he really only gets the corner of his mouth, and he sits back up and withdraws his hand. It floats uselessly between them, but Six doesn’t even care, because of the way Siete licks his lips and then grins.

“What?” Siete says, sitting back up. He leans a little too far back in his chair and Six catches him before he tips over, nearly losing balance himself.

“Wh—what do you _mean,_ what?” Suddenly bashful, Six shields his face from Siete with a hand. “I thought it was clear enough.” His dreams aren’t normally like this. Usually Siete just smiles and leans back in, doesn’t question him, make him feel like he’s done something wrong.

“It wasn’t.” He’s knocked to the side and the world tilts, blurring together, but there’s a grip on his waist and a head in the crook of his neck, and he feels Siete chuckle. “I’m—you’re gonna—you’re gonna have to show me again.”

—how did it go? He pushes Siete away, grabbing him by the shoulders. That’s a start. He puts his hands on either side of Siete’s face, and tilts his head a little. “You... You—close your eyes.”

Siete does, leaning forward a little bit. And then—and then, Siete would smile, like he is now, and he would sigh out his nose when their lips connect, like he does now, and it’s starting to feel awfully real for what should be a dream, Siete’s thumb running circles against his waist.

There’s no way he isn’t dreaming, because Siete’s saying the things he wants to hear. In his dreams is the only place he’s allowed to pursue this far with minimal consequences in his life; he greedily drinks in Siete’s grin full of mischief as he tosses an approximate amount of change on the table and drags him out into the streets, where it feels like too late to be night and too early to be morning.

Siete laces their fingers together and when they’re in between streetlights, hiding in the shadows, Siete brings him in close and starts kissing him again, more enthusiastically than when they were inside. “Do you know,” Siete says between kisses, “how long—I _thought_ you’d—how long I’ve been waiting?”

Six can’t tell if he’s the one laughing or Siete is, but the world feels lighter than it ever has before in his life. “That’s my line.”

They’re maybe a little too enthusiastic, each of them having to take steps backwards or forwards to keep each other from toppling, until Siete breaks away again, laughing into his neck. “I love you,” he says, almost not believing his own words. “I love you,” he says, louder, letting it fly out to the night. “I—”

“I get it, you’re—you’re so loud,” Six says, voice pinched and thoroughly embarrassed, but lightheaded with the idea that someone has feelings for him this strong they can’t stop talking about it.

“No, everyone needs to—I’m gonna get you a fuckin’. I’ll get you a ring, like Song and Silva get to do. I’ll get you anything you want—I just want you to be happy. It’s a good look on you. Whatever helps. God, whatever helps. Oh, fuck.” Six feels Siete’s eyes scrunch closed into the nape of his neck, and he pats Siete on the back, bombarded by all the sincerity. “I want—are you happy? Do you—do you want this? You don’t have to pretend for me—”

“I don’t—I don’t know if—you told me you wouldn’t ever do something like this with me,” Six stammers out, drunken mind trying to process _Siete_ and _happy_ and _Siete telling him he wants him to be happy._ He shuts his eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to—with _me.”_

Siete narrows his eyes in concentration, sifting through memories in his mind until he finds the appropriate one, and then an embarrassed expression creeps onto his face. “I did say that, didn’t I.” Siete kisses him on the forehead—“Just so you know—” on both of his eyelids—“It wasn’t because I didn’t want you—” the tip of his nose—“but because I thought _you_ didn’t want to.” He kisses everywhere on his face, over and over again. “Let yourself be happy. It’s all I want.” He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Siete wipes wetness from his cheek, leaning down to kiss it again.

Six laughs. He doesn’t know what else to do, but the feeling in his chest is rising up, threatening to tear him apart if he doesn’t let it go, and he covers his face with both of his hands again and laughs into them, Siete kissing at his hands.

“Wait, wait, come with me,” Siete says suddenly, grabbing his hand and linking them together, pressing his lips to his knuckles, and then runs down the street, nearly tripping over his own haste.

The phone calls Siete starts making blur in his mind, one he can vaguely register as being to Song and the rest something about a ring, and they run past their apartment building into the one across the street, where Sierokarte is waiting for them in the building's lobby, laptop on her chest and lying across the sofa, and suddenly Six feels a small velvet box in his hands and watches as she pokes Siete in the leg for making her move from her room for something at this hour—

Somehow they’re in the apartment now, Siete laughing as he struggles to keep his hands steady as he puts a simple gold band on Six’s left ring finger, saying something about Silva and Song or another, and Six himself is laughing, falling over on the couch as Siete forgets how to turn the flash off on his phone—

It blurs like it would a dream, and his cheeks hurt from smiling when he pushes Siete up against the door of his bedroom, kissing him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **six  
** _july 8_

 

“I think,” Siete starts carefully, “we would be dead without her.” Six folds his arms in front of him and buries his head in his arms, hears the scrape of the chair next to him against the floor, and Siete’s hand back on his head.

"We're dead _with_ her. Her blackmail material on us is unstoppable."

Siete laughs. “Remember the last date I ever went on? The one that my friend from work set me up on?”

The words are familiar, but in the shadow of his mind, Six can’t pinpoint where. “Mm.”

“When you laughed at me. It hit me all at once, that it was... the first time I thought that I liked you. That I wanted you to be happy. It wasn’t that I thought you were a lost cause, or that I was feeling these things out of pity. Wish you’d give yourself more credit.” The hand on his head doesn’t stop, and he feels the anxiety abate, but at the same time, he still feels jitters throughout his body; no longer pinpricks against his skin, but like new leaves being rustled by the wind. “I didn’t wanna say anything, because I wanted to make sure you wanted this yourself. It’s not exactly right to say that I _waited_ for you to fall for me, anything facetious as that. But you’re really cute, y’know.” Siete mutters the last part and Six curls more into his arms.

“Stop making fun of me,” Six mumbles, weakly.

“I’m not,” Siete laughs, “I’m being serious. Should I elaborate, in great detail, _why_ I think—”

“I’ve heard enough,” he says. He breathes in deeply and then sits back up, Siete’s hand still on his head, bringing his knees up to his chest and looking beside him. “What happens now?”

“Anything we want. I should probably start by taking you to dinner,” Siete grins, a little bashful.

Six takes the hand off his head and holds it, moving so he’s facing Siete, and he closes his eyes and sighs when Siete leans in to meet him halfway.

 

 


	6. epilogue

**siete  
** _that year, (late) july_

 

“Six has a _motorcycle,”_ Siete says, helmet under his arm as he walks into Nio’s apartment, casually, as if they weren’t the last people to show up. From the living room, Song looks up from her conversation with Okto, Funf in her lap, and sends him a _look._ “And it’s sick as _hell.”_

“So that’s the commotion I heard in the parking lot,” Nio says, sitting on the table and swinging her legs. “Didn’t take you for a motorcycle type, Six.”

Six shrugs, and out of nowhere, Sarasa answers for him. “Ya kiddin’? He’s like, all broody Erune, dark and leather jacket and _everything._ I was just _waitin’._ Six, gimme a ride.”

“I don’t think any helmets exist on this earth that would fit your horns.” He takes Siete’s helmet and asks Nio, “Where can I keep these?”

“Coat closet, top shelf.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” Sarasa laughs over Nio.

Siete stretches his arms out in front of him as Six walks over to the coat closet, ignoring Sarasa. “I’m not complaining,” he says, voice sing-song, “the breeze is really nice.” Everyone in the room is staring at him, not saying a word, and it’s never been harder in his life to try not to burst into laughter. He kicks off his shoes and asks, innocently as he can, “What?”

From the kitchen, Quatre raises his right little finger and points to it. “Hello?” Esser walks out from behind him with a platter of cut fruit and she tilts her head, eyes zeroing onto Siete’s finger like a marksman. “You’re just gonna fu—” Okto coughs loudly. “— _frickin’_ walk in here with a ring and pretend we aren’t gonna say anything?”

“Uh, maybe.” Everyone in the room knows it’s been years now since Siete’s been in a relationship, anything past a few dates, and he laughs at the thought that right now, his friends have also missed an entire conversation and only caught the end.

Okto frowns. “Do you understand what sort of foolish situation you’re putting yourself in once again by trying to hide behind our backs? You do have your own life, but understand that your friends will be once again implicated in whatever disaster befalls _this_ relationship.”

“Man, Siete’s really gone and bagged himself a relationship _with a ring_ somehow between his birthday and now.” Sarasa’s cackle rings in his ears. “Six, y’know anything about ‘em?”

Everyone in the room now turns to Six, who has been standing in front of the coat closet during the entire exchange, helmets still in his arms. He puts them one by one on the shelf at the top, and then, still not turning around to face everyone, he takes the leather glove off his right hand and holds it up behind him.

“Oh, no fuckin’ _way,”_ Sarasa screeches giddily, running over and launching herself into Six’s back. The motion makes him screech, high pitched and startled, and he has to support himself on the back wall of the closet so Sarasa doesn’t knock his teeth out. She gets him in a headlock and starts giving him a noogie, and over Six’s stammered protests, she shouts, “look what the cat dragged in!”

“I mean, you didn’t have to be that dramatic, but alright,” Siete says, leaning back against the front door and crossing his arms. There’s a flurry of joking condolences for Six’s loss, actual heartfelt congratulations, and at least one grumbled _finally._

 _“Wow_ , he’s really got you.” Quatre leans against the door next to him, also watching from the side. “You should see your faces. You two look disgusting.”

Amidst the commotion, he spots Six in Song’s arms, grinning into her neck, face completely flushed red.

 

 

 

 

 

 **six  
** _one year from then, august_

  
Six waves at the figure getting out of his car and jogging towards him. The smile on his face is small—unlike the other, his smiles aren’t ear to ear—but it’s there all the same.

“Sorry,” is the first thing he says—apologizing for what, he’s not quite sure, but there’s a bit of a laughing edge to it, an apology of amusement than any real remorse.

“I thought I told you to stop apologizing,” Gran says, all toothy smile. “Man, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Djeeta keeps me updated, but still nothing like seeing the flesh and bone in front of me.”

Some part of him tucked away aches at seeing his face again, his smile never changing in the years they’ve been apart. The time they’ve had is irreplaceable, everything good and everything bad, and Six carries it with him as a part of who he is—but not a single part of him wants to go over and try again, because what he has now is equally irreplaceable.

They’re sitting in a booth waiting for their dinner to come, and Gran recounts adventures in his new town, his magnetic quality bringing new people to him no matter where he goes. Six listens, warmly; he’s genuinely happy for the things that Gran’s managed to make for himself in the four years they’ve been apart, and listening to him—or any of his friends—talk about other people no longer fills him with the dread of being replaced.

There’s a little look of surprise on Gran’s face every time Six smiles or laughs, and it’s only a matter of time until it gets commented on. “Guess I was worried for nothing, you seem better off than I do!”

Six feels himself smile, eyes waning into crescents, and twisting the ring around his right little finger under the table.

 

 

 

 

 

 **siete  
** _one year from then, august_

 

Six walks through the door, looking like a weight’s been lifted off him; his footsteps are light, and Siete hasn’t seen him look that relieved in a long time. He doesn’t think he can ever get used to that smile, the most sincere one he’s ever seen in his life—and yet still hesitant, like he’s still too shy to let himself. It charms him every time he sees it, and now is no exception. “Welcome back. Things went well?” Siete asks, pausing his show and propping himself up on his elbows from where he’s lying on the couch.

Smile still not fading, Six lies on top of him, pushing him back down, and lays his head on his chest, unpausing the show. “It did. Thank you.”

“That was all you,” he says, switching his focus to combing his hands through Six’s hair instead of on the show. Six is so contented, eyes closed and small smile still kissed against his lips, that it looks like he’ll start purring any minute. It fills Siete with so much affection, it bursts out of him as laughter.

Six looks up at him, smile more questioning. The late afternoon sun is creeping through the curtains, reflecting off Siete’s gold ring from where his hand is still sitting on Six’s head.

“Happy _does_ look good on you.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "and they were roommates. Oh My God They Were Roommates." - sela  
> remember in my last upload when i said i'd most likely procrastinate from school stuff by writing fic? yeah... i had a midterm on may 31st and according to my notes i started this the 29th so. that's that.  
>   
> i don't have enough words to thank noelle, who is subject to my stream of consciousness that getsinfinitely worse when writing fic, and a big shoutout to jack, who made a sweet ass shippy playlist that she wrote to herself and shared with me.  
> and of course, to all of you that keep reading my siete/six!! couldn't have done it without you guys either!  
> 


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